

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS 


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THE ONLY ENGLISH TRANSLATION 


Price 25 Cents 


Paris Series No. 9 

Belle- Rose 

BY 

Amedee Achard 




PARIS SERIES. 


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NO. 9 


OHOIOE> IVOVE>Iv» 

BY 

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THIS TRANSLATION IS RESPECTFULLY DEDICATED. 


’V 




BELLE-ROSE. 


A ROMANCE OF THE CLOAK AND SWORD 


CaO; 

AMEDEE ACHARD. 

TRANSLATED FROM THE FRENCH 
BY 

WILLIAM HALE. 



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CONTENTS. 


CUArXER. PAGE 

I — The Falconer’s Son 7 

II— The First Tears 17 

III— A Step in Life 25 

IV — The Skirmish 32 

V — The Interior of a Barrack 41 

VI— Lost Illusions 48 

VII— The Drops ip the Cup 54 

VIII — A House in the Hue Cassette 60 

IX— A Friend and an Enemy 68 

X— A Daughter of Eve 76 

XI— The Lighting of a Passion 82 

XII— The Dreams of a Summer Day 89 

XIII— A Serpent in the Shadow 96 

XIV— The Agony 101 

XV— A Step Toward the Tomb 106 

XVI— The Eve of the Last Day 112 

XVII— A Woman’s Hand 119 

XVHI — The Due De Luxembourg 128 

XIX— Wheat and Tares 134 

XX— Dice and Cards 142 

XXI-Good and Evil 149 

XXII —The Confession of a Magdalen 155 

XXIII -A Trap 164 

XXIV A Soul in Pain 170 

XXV- A City Won 177 

XXVI— A Diplomatic Mission 185 

XXVII— Two Women’s Hearts 191 

XXVIII— The Arguments of a Minister 196 

XXIX— What Woman Wishes, God Wishes 202 

XXX— A Scene Upon the Ocean 211 

XXXI — 4 he Dark Side of the Picture 217 

XXXII— A Proposal of Marriage 224 


-CONTENTS— (Continued. ) 

CHAPTER. PAGE. 

XXXIII— The Convent in the Hue Du Cherche-Midi 228 

XXXIV— A White Night 234 

XXXV — The Renunciation 238 

XXXVI— The Last Hour 240 

XXXVII— An English Husband 245 

XXXVIII— The Siege of the Convent 253 

XXXIX — The Gardener’s Nephew 258 

XL — A Poniard Thrust 266 

XLI— By the Aid of Fire 274 

XLIl — The Beggar 282 

XLIII— The Abbess of the Convent of St. Claire 286 

XLIV — A Nest in a Convent 293 

XL V— The Chevalier d’Arraines 299 

XLVI— Over Hjlls and Across Valleys ' 306 

XLVII— A Spy 313 

XL VIII— To Conquer or Die 319 

XLIX— The Spring of 1672 329 

L— A Pleasant Journey. 336 

LI— The Rhine 343 

LII— A Ray of Sunshine 352 

LIII— The Rue De I’Arbre-Sec 358 


BELLE. ROSE 


CHAPTER L 

THE falconer’s SON. 

There was, about the year 1663, at some hundred steps 
from St. Omer, a- well-built cottage, whose door opened 
upon the main road to Paris. A live hedge of hawthorn 
and of elder surrounded a garden in which were to be 
seen, confusedly mixed, flowers, goats, and children. Half 
a dozen hens, with their young broods, cackled in a cor- 
ner between the cabbages and strawberries ; two or three 
hives, groui)ed under some peach trees, turned to the sun 
their sweet-smelling cones filled with humming bees, and 
here and there, upon the branches of pear trees, weighed 
down with fruit, cooed some beautiful pigeon which flut- 
tered around its mate. 

The cottage had a fresh and smiling aspect which made 
glad the heart ; grape and hop-vines covered its walls ; 
seven or eight windows, irregularly placed, seemed to look 
at the landscape in a good-natured fashion; a slender 
thread of smoke trembled at the top of the chimney, 
vrhere hung the flexible stems of the wall-wort, and at 
wdiatever hour of the day you passed before the house, 
you heard the joyous cries of children and the crowing of 
cocks. Among these children who came there from all 
parts of the faubourg, there were three who belonged to 
Guillaume Grinedal, the master of the house — Jacques, 
Claudine, and Pierre. 

Guillaume Grinedal, or Pere Guillaume, as he was 
familiarly called, was indeed the best falconer in all 
Artois ; but for a long time he had had no occasion to 
make use of his knowledge. During the regency of Queen 
Anne, of Austria, Monsieur d’Assonville, his master, ruined 
by the wars, had been forced to sell his lands ; but, before 
leaving the country, wishing to reward the fidelity of his 
old servitor, he had made him a present of the cottage and 
the garden. The old Grinedal, refusing to serve new mas- 


8 


THE FALCONEK’S SON. 


ters, had retired to this habitation, where he lived on the 
fruits of occasional work and on his savings. Become a 
widower, Pere Guillaume no longer thought of anything 
but his children, whom he raised as well as his means per- 
mitted him and the most honestly in the world. So long 
as they were small, the children lived as free as butter- 
flies, rolling in the grass in summer, skating upon the ice 
in winter, and running with heads bared to the sun, 
through the rain or through the wind. Then came the 
time for study, which consisted in reading in a great book 
upon the knees of Pere Grinedal, and in writing upon a 
slate, all of which, however, did not prevent them from 
flnding leisure to gather strawberries in the woods and 
crawflsh in the streams. 

Jacques, the oldest one of the lot, was, at seventeen or 
eighteen, a great fellow who appeared to be over twentj^. 
He was not a fine conversationalist, but he acted with an 
extreme boldness and resolution as soon as he believed 
himself to be in the right. His strength made him dreaded 
by all the scholars of the district, while his upright 
character made him loved to an equal extent. He was 
chosen as judge in all the children’s quarrels; Jacques 
rendered his decree, supported it if need be with some 
trenchant blows, and everybody went away pleased. 
When there Tvas a dispute and battles for cherries or some 
German toy, the arrival of Jacques made the boldest 
silent and gave courage to the weaker ones; Jacques 
parted the combatants, questioned them as to the causes 
of the debate, distributed advice to some, a thump on the 
head to others, adjudicated the matter in litigation, and 
put each of them in accord by a game of nine-pins. 

It happened at times that he addressed himself to those 
larger and stronger than he ; but the fear of being beaten 
did not stop him. Ten times thrown to the ground, he 
arose ten times ; conquered the evening before, he began 
again the next day, and such was the power of his courage, 
supiDorted by the sentiment of justice innate in him, that 
he always ended by being victorious. But this determined 
fellow, who would not have recoiled before ten of the 
king’s gendarmes, grew troubled and stammered before a 
little girl who might well be four years younger than him- 
self. The presence of Mademoiselle Suzanne de Malzon- 
villiers was suflicient to stop him in the midst of his most 
violent exercises. As soon as he perceived her he de- 
scended from the tops of the poplars where he was rob- 
bing the nests of some magpies, released the arm of the 


THE FALCONER’S SON. 


9 


mischievous urchin whom he was about to chastise, or let 
go the bull with whom he was struggling. All the young 
lady had to do was to make an imperceptible sign of her 
finger, give him a significant glance, to make Jacques run 
to her side, blushing and confused. 

Mademoiselle de Malzonvilliers’ father was a rich farmer 
of the revenue who had taken advantage of the times of 
the Fronde to make a fortune, while so many others, on 
the contrary, were ruined by that troublous period. He 
had not always called himself by the brilliant name of 
Malzonvilliers, which was that of an estate in which he 
had invested the better part of his fortune; but, like a 
shrewd man, he had thought that he might, like other 
bourgeois of his acquaintance, barter the peasant name of 
his father for one which did honor to his crowns. Mon- 
sieur Dufailly had progressively become, and as the result 
of skillful transformations, at first Monsieur du Failly, 
then Monsieur du Failly de Malzonvilliers, then finally 
Monsieur de Malzonvilliers, quite short. At present he was 
only waiting for a favorable occasion to give himself the 
title of baron or chevalier. At the epoch when his affairs 
necessitated frequent journeys into the province, and 
oftentimes even as far as Paris, Monsieur de Malzonvilliers 
had many times confided the care of his possessions to 
Guillaume Grinedal, who passed for the most honest arti- 
san in St. Omer. This confidence, which Monsieur de Mal- 
zonvilliers had never had occasion to regret, had estab- 
lished between the falconer and the farmer of revenue in- 
timate and daily relations, w’hich profited the three chil- 
dren, Jacques, Claudine, and Pierre. Suzanne, who was 
almost as old as Claudine, had masters of every kind, and 
the lessons served for all, so that the sons of Pere Guil- 
laume soon knew more than half of the little bourgeois of 
St. Omer. 

Jacques profited above all by this instruction ; as he had 
a just and persevering mind, he puzzled over things until 
he had understood them. He was often to be met in the 
fields, bareheaded, feet incased in wooden shoes, and a 
book in his hand, and he never let go of it until he had 
thoroughly mastered it. One thing alone could turn him 
aside from this occupation — it was the pleasure which he 
enjoyed in seeing his father handle the old arms which 
were brought to him from the four corners of the town 
and from the chateaux in the neighborhood to be put in 
condition. Guillaume Grinedal was the best gunsmith in 
the canton ; it was an art which he had learned in the time 


16 


THE FALCONEK’S SON. 


when he was master of falconry at Monsieur d’Asson- 
ville’s, and which would have brought him in much 
money if he had wished to exercise it in the hope of gain. 
But, in his profession, he acted like an artist, wishing no 
more than the just payment for his work, which he always 
estimated at a value below its real worth. Jacques often 
amused himself by assisting him, and w^hen he liad pol- 
ished a halbert or some sword, he esteemed himself the 
happiest fellow in the country, provided, however, that 
Mademoiselle de Malzonvilliers gave him in the morning 
her daily smile. When Suzanne walked about the garden 
of the falconry in company with the children and the do- 
mestic animals which lived there on the best of terms, she 
offered to Jacques the strangest contrast imaginable. 
Jacques was large, strong, and vigorous. His black e^^es, 
full of firmness and luster, shone under a forehead em- 
browned by the sun and loaded with thick curls of blonde 
hair. At the least gesture of his arms one understood that 
in a turn of the hand he would have pulled up a young 
tree by the roots or made an ox bend its hoofs ; but at the 
least word from Suzanne, he blushed. Suzanne, on the 
contrary, had an exquisite delicacy of form and features ; 
at fifteen she appeared to be scarcely twelve or thirteen 
years of age; her paleface, her slender form, her frail 
limbs indicated a nervous organization of an extreme deli- 
cacy. But the calm and radiant look of her great blue eyes, 
filled with life and intelligence, the clear and firm contour 
of her mouth, announced at the same time the resolution 
of an honest and courageous soul. She had the form of a 
child and the smile of a woman. When she happened to go 
to sleep in the shade of an oak, her head supported upon 
Jacques’ shoulder, the poor fellow remained immovable so 
long as the sleep of his little friend lasted, and, in a mute 
contemplation, he admired the young and pure face which 
reposed upon his heart with such an innocent abandon- 
ment. When the young girl half opened her rosy and seri • 
ous lips Jacques held his breath to hear better. His soul 
vibrated at the voice of Suzanne as does the branch of the 
willow at the least breath of wind, and at times he felt, 
v:hile listening to her, tears mount to his eyelids — tears 
whose cause was unknown to him, but whose divine source 
was in his heart. 

One day in the month of May, 1658, five years before the 
epoch at which this story begins, and a short time before 
the glorious battle of the Dunes, Jacques, who might thei:i 
be thirteen or fourteen years of age, saw coming to hiiii, 


THE FALCONEirS SON. 


11 


while he was promenading in a meadow at a short dis- 
tance from St. Omer, an unknown man who was indiffer- 
ently dressed. You would have taken him for some de- 
serter, by his accouterment, which pertained as much to 
the civil as to the military state, if the stranger had not 
been deformed. One could not be a soldier with a hump on 
the shoulders, and Jacques thought he might be a peddler. 
The stranger followed a path traced by the marsh-gar- 
deners between the vegetables, and mounted at times upon 
a hillock to look over the hedges at the country beyond. 
When he was close to Jacques he stopped and began to 
consider him for a moment. Jacques was leaning against 
an apple tree, his hands in his pockets and whistling be- 
tween his teeth. After some minutes of reflection, the un- 
known walked toward him. 

“Do you belong to this country, my boy?” he said to 
him. 

“Yes, monsieur,” replied Jacques. 

If some one had asked Jacques why he had saluted him 
whom he took for a peddler with the name of monsieur, he 
would have found great difficulty in explaining it. The 
stranger had an air which awed Jacques, though the son 
of Guillaume Grinedal did not allow himself to be easily 
intimidated. He spoke, looked, and acted with an extreme 
simplicity, but in this simplicity there was more of nobil- 
ity and pride than in all the importance of Monsieur de 
Malzonvilliers. 

“If that is the case,” said the unknown, “you can un- 
doubtedly give me the name of some one able to make a 
long journey on horseback?” 

“You have that same one before you, monsieur.” 

“You?” 

“Myself. ” 

“But, my little friend, you appear to me very young. 
Do you know that it is a question of galloping seven or 
eight leagues without drawing bridle?” 

‘ ‘ Do not bother yourself about my age ; only furnish me 
the horse, and you will see.” 

The stranger smiled ; then he added : 

“He is untractable and full of Are ” 

“I have a good arm and a good eye; he can run ” 

“Come, then; the horse is not far off.” 

The unknown and Jacques left the meadow and entered 
a little patch of woods. Just in the middle, behind a 
thicket, Jacques perceived a horse hitched to an elm. 
Jacques had never seen an animal so beautiful, even in 


12 


THE FALCONEK’S SON. 


the stables of Monsieur de Malzonvilliers. He approached 
the horse, caressed its croup, unhitched it, and was get- 
ting ready to leap into the saddle, when the stranger softly 
XDlaced a hand upon his shoulder. 

“Before leaving,” he said to him, “it is at least neces- 
sary for you to hnow where you are to go. ’ ’ 

“That is true,” replied Jacques, whose foot was already 
in the stirrup. 

Impatience to gallop upon such a noble horse had made 
him forget the object of his trip. 

“You doubtless know where the little village of Witter- 
nesse is situated?” 

“Quite well — at a league, almost, to the right, in the 
direction of Aire.” 

“It is there you must go; now hear this well in mind: 
Before entering Witternesse you will see, to your left, a 
farm-house at the end of a rye field. It has four -windows, 
and there is a weather-cock on the roof. You will give 
three knocks at the door ; at the third one you will 
nounce in a loud voice the name of Bergame; a man will 
come out, and you will hand him this jiaper. ” 

Upon w'hich the unknown drew from his pocket a small 
portfolio, took a pencil, and began to w'rite. 

“Do you know how to read?” hesuddenly asked Jacques. 

“Yes, monsieur; quite well.” 

The stranger contracted his eyebrows; but this move- 
ment was so rapid that Jacques did not have time to take 
notice of it. For a moment the stranger turned the pencil 
between his fingers; then taking a sudden resolution, he 
rajiidly wrote some words, tore out the leaf of paper, and 
presenting it to Jacques, fixed upon the child a searching 
glance. Jacques examined the paper. 

“I read, but I do not understand,” said he. 

The stranger smiled. 

“It is not necessary for you to understand,” he rejfiied; 
“slip the jDaper in your pocket and mount your horse. 
Good! Parbleau, my boy, you carry yourself finely ! If you 
make the trip in that fashion you will not serve as a fas- 
cine to some ditch. But, all the same, keep your eyes con- 
stantly upon your animal’s ears. He is full of whims; but 
when he intends to play a trick he is honest enough to 
warn his rider by a certain movement of his ears, which 
the limbs of a great many people have caused them to 
recollect. Ah! you laugh. You will see, my boy.” 

As Jacques was about to start the stranger detained 
him. 


THE FALCONER’S SON. 


13 


“One word. Do you know in the neighborhood a family 
of honest people with whom I can spend the time until 
your return without awakening suspicions.” 

“I know ten such, but there is one above all which will 
meet your requirements. Leave this wood, follow the path 
on which I met you, take the main road, and stop before 
the first house you come across to your right. You will 
recognize it easily. Everything is open, doors and win- 
dows. You will be at my father’s, Guillaume Grinedal’s, 
just as if you were at home.” 

“Diable! but I will be quifce comfortable there,” said 
the stranger, with a smile. “Go now.” 

He withdrew his hand which rested upon the curb, and 
the horse started. A quarter of an hour after, the stranger 
entered the garden of Guillaume Grinedal. At the sight of 
a stranger, the falconer laid down a long pistol which he 
was polishing and rose to meet him. 

“What do you wish?” he said to him. 

“Hospitality.” 

“Enter. What I have is yours. If you are hungry you 
shall eat, if you are thirsty you shall drink, and poor 
though I am, I always have a bed for the honest trav- 
eler.” 

Saying which, Pere Guillaume uncovered his forehead ; 
his honest countenance, furrowed by toil, preserved an ex- 
pression of dignity which made him appear above his con- 
dition. 

“I thank you,” said the stranger; “my visit will be 
short. When your son shall have returned I will leave.” 

Guillaume questioned him with a look. 

“Oh,” continued his guest, “he runs no danger. Before 
the moon rises he will have returned. I am a merchant 
from Arras going to Lille on business ; the country is un- 
safe, and I thought that your son might more successfully 
than myself charge himself with a valise left in the hands 
of my valet at Witternesse. One cannot take too many 
precautions in the times in which we live.” 

“You are right,” said the falconer, when they had ar- 
rived in the middle room of the house, “we live in a time 
when it is necessary to surround one’s self with precau- 
tions. But in the house of an honest man there is no need 
for them ; therefore, my gentleman, do not trouble your- 
self to disguise your language and your manners.” 

At these words, the stranger trembled. 

“I do not ask you your quality and your name, ’’.contin- 
ued the falconer. “The guest is sacred; his secret is like 


14 


THE FALCONEirS SON. 


his person. I myself have gray iiair; I have seen nothing, 
heard nothing, understood nothing.” 

“You are an honest man!” the stranger impetuously ex- 
claimed. “Mon Dieu ! I have nothing to gain by dissimu- 
lating with you. You have not deceived yourself, Maitre 
Guillaume, I am ” 

“More, perhaps, than I suppose,” the falconer hastened 
to add, “and that is why I take the liberty to interrupt 
you, in order not to know more. Let you he Spaniard or 
Frenchman, you are none the less a traveler confided to 
my care. This roof protects you. If you are one of those 
who have drawn the sword against their king and their 
country, it is God’s privilege to judge you. I do my duty; 
may you be able to say ‘I do mine.’ ” 

The pretended merchant lowered his eyes under the 
serene look of the artisan, and a blush passed over his 
forehead like a flash of lightning. But immediately regain- 
ing his serenity, he saluted the old falconer with his hand. 

“So be it, my honest fellow, I will not charge your 
memory with a recollection; but, by the name of my 
father, I shall neither forget yours nor what you are 
doing.” 

Two hours passed, and the stranger partook of the fal- 
coner’s dinner, making himself at home, as if under the 
tent of a soldier or in the d^velling of a great lord. Then 
two more hours passed; at the end of the fourth he 
showed a slightly perceptible uneasiness. He walked to 
the window and opened it, listening intently ; night had 
come, and the road w^as undisturbed by any sound. Pres- 
ently he left the house and advanced to the garden gate. 
Pere Guillaume followed him. The silence was profound. 

“Your son is brave?” the stranger brusquely said to the 
falconer. 

“Honest and brave as steel.” 

“He will then defend a charge confided to his fidelity?” 

“He is only a child, but he would brave death like a 
man.” 

“Then I fear for your son, Maitre Guillaume.” 

The father did not reply, but in the rays of the moon 
the stranger saw the pallor extending over his forehead. 
Both were silent, with eyes fixed upon the white line of 
the road which was lost in a vague and unlimited horizon. 
The mysteries of the night filled space with noises con- 
fused, rapid, and uncertain. Guillaume Grinedal leaned 
upon tiie garden palings ; you could hear the wood crack- 
ing under the nervous grasp of his hands. 


THE FALCONEE’S SON. 


15 


“Nothing, nothing yet,” the stranger murmured. “Oh! 
I would give a thousand louis to hear the gallop of a 
horse. ’ ’ 

As he spoke a detonation sounded in the distance, be- 
yond the woods whose thick shadows divided the horizon. 
The falconer overturned the palings and leaped into the 
road. 

“A gun-shot! Did you hear it?” exclaimed the gentle- 
man. 

“I heard it,” replied Guillaume Grinedal, who threw 
himself in the road, flat upon the stomach. 

Two more detonations again broke the silence, but the 
sounds came from so far away that the ear of a father or 
an outlaw was necessary to distinguish them from the 
thousand noises which floated under the profound sky. 

Guillaume Grinedal was listening with ear pressed to 
the ground. 

“Well?” said the gentleman. 

“Nothing, nothing yet! My heart throbs and my ears 
tingle,” said the poor father. “Ah ! yes, now a muffled and 
continuous noise ! He approaches — it is the gallop of a 
horse.” 

“Oh! the brave young fellow!” exclaimed the stranger, 
explosively. 

Guillaume Grinedal said nothing, but uncovering his 
forehead, whitened by years, he raised his eyes to heaven 
and prayed. The gentleman was looking into space, his 
head inclined forward. You would have said that his 
sparkling eyes wished to pierce the shadowy transparence 
of the night. 

“I see him, mordieu! I see him. The horse has wings, 
and the child is astride him.” 

The gentleman seized the falconer’s arm. 

‘ Do you not recognize him?” said he. 

But the falconer was thanking God ; two great tears 
trembled on the border of his eyelids, and his quivering 
lips murmured a prayer of gratitude. The stranger with- 
drew his hand, and fllled with a religious emotion, raised 
his hat. A few bounds brought the horse to them. The 
child leaped to the ground and fell into the arms of the 
falconer. 

“My father!” he exclaimed. 

The father silently pressed him to his heart. 

“But, ’’said Guillaume Grinedal, suddenly, “there is 
blood on your clothes. Are you wounded?” 

“It is nothing,” replied Jacques; “a ball has torn my 


16 


THE FALCONEK’S SON. 


blouse here, near the shoulder, and has scratched me, I 
believe.” 

“You are a valiant fellow, upon my faith,” said the gen- 
tleman; “if you ever enroll yourself under the flag of His 
Majesty, King Louis, you will make your way. Come, 
have you the valise?” 

“It is upon the croup of the horse.” 

“Poor Phoebus! You have had a rough time, hey?” said 
the stranger, gayly passing his hand over the horse’s neck. 

Phoebus rubbed his foaming nostrils against the gentle- 
man’s coat, pricked up his ears at his master’s voice, 
neighed, and struck the soil with his foot. 

“You have been pursued, then?” continued the stranger, 
as he unstrapped the valise. 

“At a league from Witternesse I left the main road in 
order to avoid Spanish marauders,” replied Jacques. 
“Two leagues farther on, near Blaudecques, I fell into the 
midst of hussars and imperials who were roving the coun- 
try. They pushed me closely for a quarter of an hour. But 
Phoebus has good legs. At the entrance to the wood they 
lost track of me. Ah ! I forgot ! Bergame has charged me 
with a letter for you. Here it is.” 

The gentleman broke the seal, and approaching the win- 
dow, he read rapidly in the light of a lamp. 

“It is well , my child. If we should meet some day, in 
whatever situation we should find each other, you can ap- 
peal to the guest of Guillaume Grinedal ; he will recol- 
lect.” 

At dawn the stranger mounted Phoebus, who had forgot- 
ten, between a fresh litter and two bushels of oats, the fa- 
tigues of the evening. The stranger wore the costume of 
an Artois peasant. 

“Adieu, Guillaume,” he said to the falconer, giving him 
his hand; “I offer you nothing. Your hospitality is such 
as cannot be paid, and I should fear to offend you by giv- 
ing you gold. Take my hand, and press it without fear. 
Under whatever dress I may conceal myself, it is, I swear 
to you, the hand of a loyal gentleman. As to you, friend 
Jacques, preserve that honest heart and that determined 
courage, and fortune will come to your aid ; if God spares 
me, I will pray him to furnish me an occasion to aid you 
as you have aided me.” 

Jacques’ great black eyes shone with a proud joy as he 
gazed upon the stranger. In spite of his deformed shoulder, 
the pretended merchant from Arras seemed more noble 
and more imposing than all the officers of the king whom 


THE FIRST TEARS. 


17 


he had yet seen. As the stranger took his hand Jacques’ 
heart beat rapidly, and when, pressing Phoebus’ flanks, 
the unknown rode away at a gallop, father and son kept 
their eyes on him for a long time, touched and silent. As 
they were returning to the garden Jacques’ foot struck a 
brilliant object which had fallen upon the sand. It was a 
gold medallion. 

“See, my father,” said the child; “the stranger must 
undoubtedly have lost it. ’ ’ 

“Keep it, my son; perhaps it is Providence which sends 
it to you.” 


CHAPTER II. 

THE FIRST TEARS. 

The recollection of this adventure remained in Jacques’ 
memory. Time might make faint its details, but the affair 
itself was fixed like a luminous spot in the depth of his 
heart. From the day of his meeting with the stranger he 
contracted a keener taste for things pertaining to war. 
When a squadron passed over the road, banner floating in 
the wind and trumpet at the head, he ran after it as far 
as his legs could carry him and hummed fanfares for a 
whole week. At times it also happened to him to form the 
children of the faubourg into a regiment and with them to 
deliver a counterfeit battle or imitate some siege, which 
always ended by furious melees in which his arms did 
wonders ; child though he was, he already displayed a sur- 
prising address in the handling of arms — sword, saber, ax, 
pike, dagger, pistol, or musket. The words of the Arras 
merchant, “If ever you enrol yourself, you will make your 
way,” buzzed constantly in his ears, but we should add 
that there was no drill, review, combat, and assault which 
Jacques did not willingly abandon to follow Mademoiselle 
de Malzonvilliers when she went with Claudine to search 
for strawberries in the woods. On these occasions, which 
were renewed every day, the little general sighed with all 
his heart and stood confused when Suzanne’s hand encoun- 
tered his. The little girl made him go and come at her 
will, but with so much natural grace and with an air so 
charming, that Jacques would have left for the end of the 
world without deliberating, upon a sign from her blue 
eyes. 

The years passed then between studies, battles, and 


18 


THE FIKST TEARS. 


rambles over the country. It was a time of troubles and 
wars; nothing w^as talked about except cities attacked, 
camps surprised, and murderous expeditions. Cardinal 
Mazarin and the king’s party struggled against Parlia- 
ment, the princes, and the Spaniard. Monsieur de Conde 
held the country, sometimes conqueror, sometimes con- 
quered ; but up to this time the town of St. Omer, pro- 
tected by a good garrison, had not suffered from the 
enemy’s depredations. Jacques would have left long since, 
if he had not been detained by the charm which he experi- 
enced in living near Mademoiselle de Malzonvilliers. This 
sentiment was so much the more imperious that he took 
no account of it. Chance, that great architect of the fu- 
ture, caused him to read his heart. One day, as he was 
seated in a corner of the garden, head bowed and rolling 
a dagger between his fingers, his sister Claudine came and 
softly struck him on the shoulder. Jacques trembled. 

“Of what are you thinking?” said the frolicsome child 
to her brother. 

“I do not know.” 

“Do you wish me to tell you? You are thinking of 
Mam ’selle Suzanne. ’ ’ 

“Why of her rather than of another’?’ exclaimed 
Jacques, somewhat confused. 

“Because Suzanne is Suzanne.” 

“Beautiful reason!” 

“Very good,” replied the child, whose mischievous 
smile half parted her vermilion lips. “Oh, I understand!” 

“Then, explain yourself.” 

“Hold, Jacques, ” added Claudine, taking on a serious 
air, “you are thinking of Mam ’selle Suzanne because you 
love her.” 

Jacques blushed to the roots of his hair; he rose with 
a bound ; a new trouble filled his soul, and a thousand con- 
fused sensations animated him. 

“Heavens! what is the matter with you?” exclaimed 
Claudine, frightened at the sudden change which had 
taken place in her brother’s features. 

“Listen to me, my sister; you are only a little girl ” 

“I will be fifteen when the apricots come,” said the 
child. 

“But, ” continued Jacques, “it is said that little girls 
understand these things better than grown boys. Why 
have you told me that I love Mam ’selle Su-zanne? It ma.y 
be that I do, but I do not know it. ” 

“Bless me! that is to be seen at the first glance. I cannot 


THE FIRST TEARS. 


19 


tell you how ; but I have understood it from several things 
which I cannot explain to you, because I do not know by 
what end to take them. In the first place, you do not 
speak to her as to the other girls you know ; and then you 
have eyes as sweet as honey wdien you look at her ; you 
make wide circuits to avoid her, and nevertheless you al- 
\vays meet her, or — well, you seek her everywhere, and 
when you do not find her, you stop short, and one would 
say that you desired to conceal yourself. In short, I neither 
know why nor how, but you love her.” 

“It is true,” murmured Jacques; “it is true, I love her. ” 

His voice, as he pronounced these words so sweet to his 
heart, had something grave and sad about it which 
touched Claudine. 

“Well, ” said she, slipping her pretty arms around her 
brother’s neck, “do not go and afflict yourself now? Is it 
such a painful thing to love people that it is necessary to 
assume that unhappy air. See, you are going to make me 
weep.” 

Then poor Claudine dried the corners of her eyes with her 
apron ; then smiling with the nobility of childhood, she 
raised herself upon her tiptoes, and placing her mouth to 
Jacques’ ear, she continued : 

“Bah! if I were you I should rejoice. Suzanne is not 
your sister. I am sure that she loves you as much as you 
love her. You shall marry her. ” 

Jacques kissed Claudine upon both cheeks. 

“You are a kind sister, ” he said to her; “go, now, I 
know what honesty requires of me.” 

And Jacques, disengaging himself from his sister’s em- 
brace, left the garden. He was going straight to the 
chateau, when he encountered Monsieur de Malzonvilliers. 

“I was seeking. you, monsieur, ” he said to him, as he 
saluted him. 

“Me? And what have you to say to me, my boy?” 

“I have to speak to you of an important affair.” 

“Really? Well, speak; I am listening to you.” 

“Monsieur, I am to-day eighteen years and some months 
old,” said Jacques, with the grave air of an ambassador. 
“I am an honest fellow who has strong arms and a little 
education ; I shall have one day two or three thousand 
livres from an uncle who is a cure in Picardy ; as to that 
which might come to me on my father’s side, I have de- 
cided to leave it to Claudine. In this state, I come to ask 
you if you will consent to give me your daughter in mar- 
riage.” 


20 


THE FIRST TEARS. 


“In marriage to you! What are you talking about?” ex- 
claimed Monsieur de Malzonvilliers, thoroughly stupefied. 

“I say, monsieur, that I love Mademoiselle Suzanne ; the 
respect I owe to you and my duty do not permit me to in- 
form her of it before having spoken to you of my senti- 
ments. That is why I come to ask you to accept me for 
your son-in-law.” 

During this discourse Jacques was standing in the mid- 
dle of the path, hat in hand, a handkerchief wrapped 
around his nock, and w^earing a gray smock. 

“There is no need for me to say to you,” he added, 
“that your consent will render- me perfectly happy, and 
that I will no longer have any other desire than to recog- 
nize your kindness by my good conduct and my devotion. ” 

All at once Monsieur de Malzonvilliers burst out laugh- 
ing. The strangeness of the proposition and the coolness 
with which it had been made had stupefied him at first ; 
but at the last words of Jacques he could not keep from 
laughing in the face of the poor fellow. All of Jacques’ 
blood mounted to his face. In spite of the illusions with 
which youth lulls itself, his native good sense told him 
that his demand would not be -welcomed, but his candid 
honesty did not permit him to believe* that it might give 
matter for pleasantry. 

“My proposition has amused you,” he resumed, with an 
ill-concealed emotion. “I was not expecting, I confess, to 
cause you so much joy.” 

“Eh, my friend, neither was I expecting such an ad- 
venture. Did one ever see a thing like it? It is more amus- 
ing than a comedy of Monsieur Corneille, ’pon my word.” 

Jacques tore his hat-brim with his fingers, but he was 
silent. Monsieur de Malzonvilliers kept on. laughing. Fin- 
ally, no longer able to restrain himself, he sat down upon 
a block of stone on the side of the path. 

“You will have sufficient leisure to laugh after, ’’said 
Jacques, “but now is the time to answ^er me; you cannot 
guess, monsieur, what has taken place in my heart since I 
have known that I love Mademoiselle Suzanne. I am -v\’ait- 
ing.” 

“Come, my boy, are you mad? ’’ replied the farmer of 
revenue, drying his eyes. 

“A madman does not come to honestly ask her father 
for the hand of a young girl.” 

“You speak seriously, then?” 

“Quite seriously.” 

“Be silent, and above all, do not look at me with that 


THE FIRST TEARS. 


21 


air of an unhappy swain, or you will stifle me with laugh- 
ter, and I warn you that it would be to abuse my position ; 
I am much fatigued, my friend.” 

“Therefore such is not my intention; I only desire to 
know what are your sentiments.” 

“Go to the devil with my sentiments! Have I the time 
to amuse myself with the trifles which enter the head of a 
madman? What a beautiful alliance — the daughter of 
Monsieur de Malzonvilliers with the son of Guillaume 
Grinedal, the falconer!” 

“Rail at me as much as you please, monsieur, I shall 
not grow offended,” Jacques quickly exclaimed ; “but take 
care not to touch my father’s name, for as sure as there is 
a God in heaven, the one that insults him, were it Su- 
zanne’s father, would have my vengeance to fear.” 

“ And what would you do, rascal?” 

“I would strangle him!” 

And Jacques raised above his head two hands strong 
enough to quickly give effect to the threat. Monsieur de 
Malzonvilliers brusquely arose and carried his hand to his 
neck; he already seemed to feel Jacques’ fingers fastened 
upon it. But Jacques suddenly lowered his arms, and of 
his violent emotion there no loi^ger remained anything 
but a great pallor upon his countenance. 

“I ask your pardon for my hastiness,” he said. “I ought 
never to forget the benefits which you have conferred on 
my family ; this anger is the fault of my youth and not of 
my heart ; forget it, monsieur. You would not be vexed 
with me if you knew how much I suffer since love has 
possessed me. I only live for Mademoiselle Suzanne, and I 
well feel that I cannot obtain her. But if to merit her it 
would be necessary for me to undertake something impos- 
sible, tell me, and with God’s aid it seems to me that I 
should succeed. Speak, monsieur ; what must I attempt? 
Whatever it may be, I am ready to obey, and if I do not 
succeed, I shall sacrifice my life in the effort.” 

There is always in the expression of a true sentiment an 
accent which touches ; tears had come to Jacques’ eyes, 
and his attitude expressed at the same time anguish and 
resignation; Monsieur de Malzonvilliers was at bottom a 
good man; vanity had obscured his judgment without 
spoiling his heart ; he felt touched and extended his hand 
to Jacques. 

“There is no occasion to grieve, my friend,” he said to 
him, “nor to take things so hard. You love, so you say. It 
has not been a great while since I loved, but I do not re- 


THE rmST TEAKS. 


collect to have loved at eighteen. You ■will forget as I have 
forgotten, and you will not feel any ill-effects from it:” 

Jacques shook his head sadly. 

“Yes! yes! every hodj^ talks that way,” continued the 
farmer of revenue. “Eh? My God ! at your age I already 
believed myself in the river because I had lost the object 
of my first flame. But, bah! I have lost many others since. 
Let us talk sense, my boy; you will understand me, for 
you do not lack for intelligence. Several gentlemen of the 
neighborhood have asked me for Suzanne’s hand. Can I 
conscientiously prefer you who have nothing, neither pro- 
fession, nor fortune, and repulse those who have both?” 

Jacques lowered his head, and a tear fell to the ground. 

“Parbleau, if you were rich and noble,” resumed Mon- 
sieur de Malzonvilliers, “I should wish for no other son- 
in-law than yourself.” 

“If I were rich and noble?” exclaimed Jacques. 

“Yes, certainly.” 

“Well, monsieur, I shall endeavor to win fortune and 
nobility.” 

“Listen, then, my friend, these things do not come 
quickly. I do not promise you to wait.” 

Jacques hesitated a moment; then raising his eyes to 
heaven, he said : 

“God sparing me, monsieur, I shall make as much haste 
as I can.” 

“Poor fellow!” murmured Monsieur de Malzonvilliers, 
as Jacques moved away; “it is truly unfortunate that he 
IS not a marquis, or at least a millionaire.” 

Jacques dir*ected his course with a slow but firm step 
toward a part of the park of Malzonvilliers where Suzanne 
was accustomed to walk at this hour, a book or some 
needlework in her hand. He accosted her resolutely and 
related to her the conversation which he had just had 
with her father; his voice trembled, but his glance was 
steady. Suzanne had felt herself blush at Jacques’ first 
word, but soon overcoming her emotions, she had fixed 
upon her lover that clear and serene look which beamed 
like a star in the depths of her blue ej^es. 

“Your father has left me no hope, mademoiselle, ” said 
Jacques, after he had finished his narrative; “neverthe- 
less I am determined to undertake everything to merit 
you Do you permit me?” 

“Do you love me, Jacques?” said the young girl, in that 
sweet and vibrating voice which sounded like crystal. ‘ 

“Do I love you? I would give my life for my sister 


THE FIRST TEAHS. 


23 


Claudine; but, mademoiselle, it seems to me — and God 
pardon me this blasphemy — that I would give my soul’s 
safety for you. ’ ’ 

“I shall then be your wife one day, my friend,” said 
Suzanne, extending her hand to Jacques, who felt his heart 
melt at these words. “Both of us are very young, almost 
two children, ” she added, with a smile, “but God will 
come to our aid.” 

“I have a strong heart,” exclaimed Jacques. “Oh, 
mademoiselle, I shall win you.” 

“I count on it, and I promise you to never belong to any 
one but you. ’ ’ 

^ Jacques wished to kiss Suzanne’s hand, but Suzanne 
opened her arms, and the two children embraced each 
other. Both were at the same time grave and ingenuous. 
They believed in their love. 

“Go and merit me,” said Suzanne, her cheeks humid 
and blushing; “I shall wait for you.” 

They exchanged a last oath and separated. 

Jacques went back to the cottage, serious but no longer 
sad. He at once imparted to Guillaume Grinedal what had 
taken place during the day. 

“We love each other,” he added, “and we shall marry.” 

The father looked at the swallows which were flying far 
off in the blue sky. 

“Lovers’ oaths!” said he, shaking his bald head. “But 
whether they last or not matters little, my son, you must 
go away.” 

“Such -was my intention,” replied Jacques. 

Father and son pressed each other’s hands. 

“The daughter belongs to the father, ’’said Guillaume 
Grinedal. “Monsieur de Malzonvilliers has been kind to 
us ; he must not accuse you of having wished to sow dis- 
order in his house. You will leave to-morrow without 
seeking to see Suzanne again.” 

Jacques hesitated. 

“It must be so, ” repeated the elder. 

“I shall leave,” said the son; “I shall leave without 
seeing her again. ” 

Toward evening, at the accustomed hour, they sat down 
around the table. The dinner was barely touched. They 
sat in silence. Jacques did not eat, and the refrain of the 
songs which he was accustomed to hum died upon his lips. 
Claudine did not wish to speak, for fear of bursting into 
sobs. She turned aside at times to dry her eyes. Jacques 
and Guillaume tried to appear calm, but the morsels which 


24 


THE FIEST- TEARS. 


they carried to their lips they again placed back untouched 
upon their plates. After the evening prayer the father 
embraced his three children. He retained Jacques the 
longest ui^on his heart. 

“Go to sleep,” he said to him ; “but previously ask God 
for courage to live the life which begins for you to-mor- 
row. ” 

The father withdrew, and the three children began to 
weep. Not one had the strength to express his disappoint- 
ment, and each of them found fewer words to say than 
kisses to give. Toward dawn the family gathered together 
on the threshold of the door. Jacques had put on large 
shoes and gaiters, a leather belt tightened his blouse 
around his waist, a small haversack was suspended to his 
shoulders, and his hand was armed with a stout stick of 
holly wood. Pierre and Claudine were sobbing. Jacques 
was slightly pale, but his look had regained all its assur- 
ance and firmness. 

“Where are you going, my son?” said the father. 

Even at this epoch Paris was the magic city, the radiant 
center which attracted every active intelligence, every 
audacious mind, every unquiet imagination. Jacques had 
not for a moment thought of the details of the extreme 
part which he had chosen, nevertheless at his father’s 
question, he unhesitatingly replied : 

“To Paris.” 

“It is a great city, full of perils and surprises. Many 
have arrived there poor like yourself, and have gone away 
rich, but better to go away from it miserable than to leave 
your honesty there. May God bless you, my son.” 

Jacques knelt down between his brother and sister, and 
Guillaume placed his trembling hands upon the forehead 
of his first-born child. After he had risen, the father 
wished to slip in Jacques’ hand a purse, in which some 
gold shone, but Jacques gave it back to him. 

“Keep this gold,” he said to him; “it is Claudine’s 
dowry. I have arms and in my haversack fifty livres 
which I have earned.” 

The father did not insist, but drawing from his bosom a 
jewel attached to a ribbon, he passed it around Jacques’ 
neck. 

“Do you recognize it, Jacques?” he said to him. ‘ Tt is 
the medallion lost by the stranger five years ago. You 
have well earned it, therefore keep it. If you again come 
across the gentleman to whom it belongs, you will return 
it to him, and perhaps he will recall the hospitality of our 


A STEP IN LIFE. 


25 


roof. Let us embrace each other now, and may God guide 
you.” 

Jacques first embraced Guillaume and Pierre. Claudine 
had remained slightly in the rear ; when it was her turn, 
she threw herself on Jacques’ neck. 

“I embrace you for myself first,” she whispered to him, 
so low that her voice glided like a breath into the trav- 
eler’s ear; “afterward for her.” 

Jacques trembled. 

“Yes, for her,” his sister resumed; “she herself has 
recommended me to do so. ” 

Jacques passionately pressed Claudine to his heart at 
the recollection of Suzanne. He looked at the sky full of 
new courage, his eye shining with hope. 

The first rays of dawn lit up the dewy plains. On the 
horizon floated a thousand gilded vapors, and the road was 
lost in the midst of solitudes bathed in light. Paris was 
yonder, behind that flaming horizon ; Suzanne was the 
reward of triumph. Jacques snatched himself from Clau- 
dine’s arms and took his departure. \ 


CHAPTER III. 

A STEP IN LIFE. 

At some hundred steps from the cottage, the road made 
a turn and led up a small hill. Arrived at the top, Jacques 
turned back. Upon the threshold of the door, Guillaume 
Grinedal was standing, and near him, kneeling ujDon the 
ground, Pierre and Claudine holding his hands in theirs. 
Behind him Jacques left all his happiness, all that he had 
loved — the garden filled with shade and delightfully cool, 
the tranquil retreat where he had stammered his first 
prayer and dreamed his first dreams of love, the great 
plains which had protected his soul with their solitude 
and their serenity, the vast chateau, vailed by old elms, 
where he had so often sighed, without knowing the cause 
of his sighs, at the noise of Wo infantile lips singing a 
song of the country. The tawny oxen wandering over the 
fertile meadows, the bulls ruminating in the shade of the 
beech trees, the herd filing along the path, the black 
swarms of crows dispersed about the oaks, the young girl 
passing the babbling brook with bare feet, the stupid 
farmer urging on his loitering team, and even the larks 


26 


A STEP IN LIFE. 


hidden in the hollow furrows or lost in the immense azure 
— all the beings and all the things of creation had a part in 
that life which had expanded like a limpid and fresh 
stream between two banks of soft grass. Behind him was 
repose and peace ; before him was the unknown and its 
numberless accidents. 

Jacques leaned against the stick of holly, and let his 
gaze wander far away. A thousand recollections awoke in 
a crowd in his heart ; for a long time he listened to their 
confused voices which told him of the past filled with 
sweet joys and honest labors, and took pleasure in their 
mysterious narratives ; his eyes turned toward the beauti- 
ful foliage which formed for Malzonvilliers a green belt. 
Two tears which came to wet his hands, without his hav- 
ing felt them flow over his cheeks, distracted him from 
his dream. How many others had not already fallen to 
the ground? Jacques shook his head and bounded to the 
other side of the hill. After having passed the night at 
Fauquenbergne, he arrived the next day at Fruges. In the 
inn where he stopped he heard that a troop of freebooters 
liad penetrated into the country between Aire and St. 
Omer. They belonged, it was said, to a corps of Hunga- 
rian and Croatian soldiers which the Spanish government 
had licensed, and who sought to amass a large booty be- 
fore leaving Flanders. 

The inhabitants who were in easy circumstances were 
retiring in all haste in the direction of St. Pal or Mon- 
treuil; the others were concealing their most precious 
possessions. Among those who were decamping in all 
haste not one had yet seen anything, yet no one stopped, 
and no one dared tiirn back his head. Jacques thought 
that each one fled because he saw the others fly, and like 
the resolute fellow that he was, he determined to continue 
his journey, wishing fco arrive at Hesdin before night. 
The day was hot, and Jacques had been walking since 
morning; appetite began to make itself felt along with 
fatigue. Perceiving neither Hungarians nor Croats, 
Jacques threw himself upon the side of the road near a 
spring, which bubbled in the shade of a clump of trees, 
and drawing from his satchel some provisions with which 
he had provided himself at Fruges, he dined merrily. At 
this place the grass was thick and the shade cool. Jacques 
looked over the road, and seeing nothing, neither foot- 
soldier nor cavalier, he stretched himself out like a shep- 
herd of Virgil at the foot of a beech. He thought at first 
and a great deal of Mademoiselle de Malzonvilliers and 


A STEP IN LIFE. 


27 


sighed ; then at the recollection of the good people whom 
he had encountered flying like hares, he smiled. Undoubt- 
edly he was going to think of many other things still, 
when he went to sleep. 

Jacques only wished to rest, but youth proposes and the 
fresh grass disposes. He w^as sleeping then as one sleeps 
at eighteen, when a great noise of horses neighing and 
prancing awoke him in surprise. Seven or eight cavaliers 
were circling around him, while two others were unstrajj- 
ping his haversack, after having leaped from the saddle. 
Jacques rose at a bound, and at the first blow of his fist 
felled one of the pillagers. He was going to take the other 
by the throat when three or four cavaliers pounced upon 
him and overthrew him. Before he could rise again a vio- 
lent blow stunned him, and he remained stretched at the 
feet cf the horses. 

Only three minutes had been needed for the cavalier to 
unstrap his valise ; it did not take them two to pillage the 
money and the effects, to despoil Jacques of his coat, and 
to disapjiear at a gallop. Jacques remained immovable for 
some moments, extended upon his back. The large brim 
of his felt hat having softened the force of the blow 
w'hich was intended for him, Jacques was only stunned. 
When he raised himself again, half naked and moneyless, 
he ran to an elevation to reconnoiter the road which the 
liillagers had taken. A whirlwind of smoke, lashed by 
the wind, undulated in the plain ; two villages were burn- 
ing; between the crackling roofs of thatch passed the 
frightened animals. A dull cloud pitted with sparks was 
expanding in the distance. When the Are gained a straw- 
stack or some barn filled with hay a jet of flame divided 
the somber curtain with its red and forked lightnings. A 
body of cavalry was ranged in line of battle on the forder 
of a stream. Jacques had never seen a similar uniform, 
which was composed of a white coat with yellow facings 
and black pants. At the head of it^ going and coming 
from one end of the squadron to the other, rode a cavalier 
whose countenance indicated that he was the chief. He 
had no doubt but what he had to do with marauders be- 
longing to the enemy, but in his naive sentiment of equity, 
he fully believed that the chief would cause to be re- 
turned to him what had been stolen from him. If the King 
of Spain and the Emperor of Germany made war on the 
King of France, they ought not to make it on travelers. 
At the sight of a young man advancing toward them, 
bare-headed and coatless, the captain drew up. 


28 


A STEP IN LIFE. 


“What do you wish?” he . brusquely said to him, when 
Jacques was at two steps from his horse. 

“Justice,” Jacques tranquilly replied. 

The chief smiled and passed his long and nervous fingers 
through his mustache. 

Two cavaliers who followed him exchanged some rapid 
words ; they spoke rather with the throat than with the 
lips, and their idiom struck Jacques’ ears like the croak- 
ing of ravens. 

“Of what do you complain?” said the chief. 

“My valise, the effects which it contained, my money, 
even my clothes — everything has been taken from me. ’ ’ 

“They left you your skin, and you complain. You are 
exacting.” 

Jacques thought he had not well understood. 

“But I tell you ” 

“And I tell you to hold your tongue!” exclaimed the 
chief. “You will answer when you are questioned.” 

Thei chief turned to his officers. During their short con- 
ference Jacques crossed his arms. The idea of flying did 
not enter his mind ; it seemed to him impossible that any 
further harm could be done him. 

“You are a Frenchman, undoubtedly?’ said the chief 
returning to him. 

“Yes.” 

“From this neighborhood, perhaps?” 

“From St. Omer.” 

“You must know, then, the secret roads for gaming the 
frontiers of Flanders.” 

“Quite well.” 

“You will have to serve us, then, as guide that far. 
Though your compatriots decamp like flocks of ducks at 
our approach, I believe that we have advanced too far. I 
have enough of this kind of booty. Ho^wever, if there are 
some good chateaux in the neighborhood, you will lead us 
to them. Go ahead.” . 

Jacques did not budge. 

“Did you hear me?” repeated the chief, touching him 
with the end of his switch. 

“Perfectly well.” 

“Then march.” 

“No, I shall remain here.” 

“Remain here!” exclaimed the chief, and urging on his 
horse, he brought him up alongside the immovable 
Jacques. 

The icy tube of a pistol touched Jacques’ forehead. 


A STEP IN LIFE. 29 

“Come, do you know that all I have to do is to move my 
finger in order to blow out your brains?” said the chief. 

“Move it, then, for I shall not serve you as guide in my 
country and against my own people.” 

The pistol was slowly lowered. 

“Then you do not wish to lead us to the frontiers,” 
added the chief, slipping his pistol under the saddle-bow. 

“I cannot. ” 

“Then it is I who will lead you there.” 

The chief spoke some words in a foreign tongue, and be- 
fore Jacques could suspect the danger which threatened 
him, three or four soldiers had seized and hound him. 

“There is in the company some old halters which will 
do you for a cravat, ” continued the chief, addressing him- 
self to Jacqties. “When we come to the limits of Artois I 
intend to leave you there, suspended to the most beautiful 
branch of the most beautiful oak I can find, in order to 
make you serve as an example to the inhabitants of the 
place. If the ravens permit you, scoundrel, you will have 
leisure to there meditate on the results of your honesty.” 

Upon a sign from the chief, two soldiers threw Jacques 
behind a cavalier. They tied him on the saddle like a sack, 
and the whole troop started at a trot in the direction of 
Hesdin. Jacques, bent in two, beat with his head and his 
feet the horse’s flanks ; the blood rushed to his extremi- 
ies, his face became purple, his eyes grew blood-shot, a 
painful and confused buzzing filled his ears, the name of 
Suzanne expired upon his lips, and he closed his eyes. But 
just as the red vail which floated before his half-closed 
eyes was obscuring most his mind, he carried, by a most 
violent effort, his hands to his head. The straps which 
bound them touched his lips. He bit them, and the in- 
stinct of self-preservation returning with the hope of de- 
liverance, he soon loosened the knots with his teeth. The 
cavalier was singing and polishing the guard of his saber. 
Jacques suspended himself by one hand to the horse’s 
crupper, and with the other undid the strap wliich held 
him to the saddle. When he felt his limbs free he looked 
around him to see if any soldier of the squadron was 
watching him. ^The chief and the officers were riding in 
front, and the squadron followed them without thinking 
of the captive. The cavalier, busy with his weapon, did 
not press his horse, who, more heavily loaded than the 
others, had lost some ground and was now at the rear end 
of the column. Jacques let himself glide softly down into 
the road. No sooner than he felt the ground under his feet 


80 


A STEP IN LIFE. 


all his vigor returned to him, and turning aside from the 
road, he took his way through the fields. But scarcely had 
he made two hundred steps when he heard a detonation, 
and at the same moment, a ball plowed up the sand at his 
feet. He turned his head and saw three or four cavaliers 
in pursuit of him, muskets in hand. 

Jacques was lithe and vigorous. He crossed hedges and 
ditches like a squirrel, but he could not hold out long 
against horses. The cavalier to whose care he had been 
confided showed himself tbe'most ardent in his pursuit. 

Already he was some hundred steps in advance of his 
comrades, when Jacques, realizing the uselessness of his 
flight, stopped. The cavalier came galloping up to him 
with raised saber, but Jacques avoided the stroke by 
throwing himself to one side, and seizing the soldier by 
the left leg, he pulled him down from off the horse. While 
the soldier, bruised by his fall, was writhing on the ground, 
Jacques leaped into the saddle and rode away. For some 
minutes the comrades of the vanquished man followed 
after him, two or three balls scratched the soil about him, 
bui soon the marauders slacked their course. The squadron 
was far behind them, and in front there extended an un- 
known country, where the enemy might rise up at any 
moment. One of them drew up his horse and turned back, 
the second imitated him, then the third also, and Jacques 
no longer heard their furious gallop sounding in his ears. 
In his turn he tightened the reins and put his steed to a 
slow trot Jacques had not ridden a quarter of an hour in 
the direction of St. Pal when he discovered, beyond 
Fleury, a troop of cavaliers carrying some foot-soldiers on 
the croups of their horses. The first encounter had taught 
the falconer’s son enough of the usages of war to render 
him circumspect. For a moment he thought of entering a 
little patch of woods, when a new reflection decided him 
to push straight on. Be was too close to St. Pal, a strong 
city occupied by a large garrison, to fear that the enemy 
had dared venture this far. A sentry who was riding two 
or three hundred steps from the troop, astonished to see a 
great fellow having only a pair of pants and a shirt gallop- 
ing upon a thoroughly equipped horse, stopped Jacques. 

“Lead me to your captain,” said Jacques to the most 
conspicuous one of the band. 

“That is just what I was going to propose to you, my 
comrade,” replied the brigadier. 

The captain was a handsome young man whose good a]v 
pearance was enhanced by the military costume. A slender 


A STEP IN LIFE. 


31 


black mustache set off lips of the purest contour. A deep 
pallor, spread over his delicate features, gave his physiog- 
nomy an inexpressible distinction and charm. Jacques 
felt reassured at the first look. Friend or enemy, he was 
dealing with a brave j^entleman. The officer silently con- 
sidered Jacques for a moment, and a passing smile lit up 
his countenance, over which melancholy had thrown its 
mysterious vail. 

“If you are a Frenchman,” he at last said, in a clear 
and sweet voice, “fear nothing, you are among French- 
men.” 

Jacques related to him what had happened to him, his 
sleep, his capture, his deliverance, the peril which he had 
escaped. The officer listened to him, twisting the end of 
his mustache, his eyes fixed upon those of the young man. 
Jacques understood the significance of this look. He 
blushed. 

“You take me for a spy?” said he, in a quick tone. 

“Not now; cowardice does not possess those honest 
features and that proud look. It trembles, but it does not 
blush. You are a brave fellow, and you shall lead us to 
the place where you left the freebooters.” 

“Willingly. When I lost sisrht of them they were taking 
the road to the Abbaye de St. Georges, near Bergueneuse, 
and cannot be more than a league from here.” 

Upon the captain’s order, Jacques was furnished with a 
coat, hat, saber, and pistols. 

“Did you ever handle these togs?” said the officer. 

“You can judge, my captain, if we come across the ban- 
dits who robbed me.” 

“Go ahead, then.” 

Jacques placed himself at the head of the troop, which 
was composed of almost two hundred cavaliers carrying 
behind them as many grenadiers. It had just been detailed 
from the garrison of St. Pal, to repulse the marauders of 
the Spanish army who had been described by the scouts. 

The officer rode by Jacques’ side. 

“You handle your horse like an old soldier,” he said to 
him at the end of five mintues. “Where did you learn 
horsemanship?” 

“At my father’s, who lives at St. Omer.” 

“Ah! you are from St. Omer? Then you have, perhaps, 
known an honest falconer named Guillaume Grinedal?” 

“How could I fail to know him, since he is my father.” 

The officer trembled. He turned his face toward Jacques 
and began to consider him attentively. 


32 


THE SKIRMISH. 


“Your father! That old Guillaume Grinedal who has so 
often held me on his knees is your father? Your name is 
Jacques, then?” 

It was Jacques’ turn to tremble. He looked at the offi- 
cer, deeply moved, seeking to read upon his countenance 
a name which his heart repeated in a low tone. 

“My name? You know my name?” said he. 

The officer gave him his hand. 

“Have you, then, forgotten Monsieur d’Assonville?” 
he said. 

“Our benefactor!” exclaimed Jacques. 

And he pressed his lips to the captain’s hand. 

“Not that one, Jacques, but his son, Gaston d’Asson- 
ville. The father is dead. He was Guillaume’s friend ; the 
son will be that of Jacques.” 


CHAPTER IV. 

THE SKIRMISH. 

The troop commanded by Monsieur d’Assonville, cap- 
tain of light-horse, was still ten minutes’ ride from the 
Abbaye de St. Georges, whose white walls were outlined 
between some clumps of trees to the right of the road, 
when gun-shots were heard a short distance away. 

A peasant who was fleeing upon a sorry nag informed 
Monsieur d’Assonville that twenty marauders had pre- 
sented themselves at the abbey, had forced the doors and 
ordered the nuns to prepare provisions for the whole 
troop, if they did not wish to see their house fired. 

“What did the abbe do?” asked the captain, whose 
eyes grew inflamed. 

“Bless you!” said the peasant, “he emptied the cellar 
and had the tables set. ’ ’ 

“Well, we shall eat the dinner after the ball.” 

“Hum !” said the other, “it is my opinion, my officer, 
that many of the dancers will be missing at the feast. The 
Hungarians are numerous.” 

“How many?” 

“Six or seven hundred, alien horseback and well armed. 
Their chief has had the trumpet sounded ; the scattered 
bands have collected from every direction, and while 
waiting for supper to be prepared, they are pillaging 
Auvin.” 


i 


THE SKIKMISH. 


33 


The village was on fire, and the. fusillade burst in the 
plain. 

Monsieur d’Assonville rose in his stirrups, sword in 
hand. He was no longer the pale young^man with the col- 
orless forehead. Lightning flashed from his eyes, and 
blood reddened his cheeks. 

“Forward!” he exclaimed, in a thundering tone, and 
' with the end of his sword he pointed out to his soldiers the 
flaming village. The whole troop moved off. 

At sight of the French the clarions sounded, and the 
enemy ranged themselves in line of battle at some distance 
from Auvin, on tliQ. banks of the Ternoise. It was a nu- 
merous and well-mounted troop; but Monsieur d’Asson- 
ville w^as one of those who do not know how to draw back. 
He made the grenadiers alight and divided them into 
platoons of from twenty to twenty-five men between his 
cavaliers. , 

“Make use of the gun as we shall the saber,” he said to 
them, “and we shall make these devilish scoundrels pass 
over the river without boats.” 

The grenadiers cried, “Vive le roi!” and got their arms 
in readiness. Just as Monsieur d’Assonville was going to 
give the signal of attack an old officer touched him lightlj’' 
on the arm. 

“Monsieur le Comte,” he said to him, “they are two to 
our one and have the advantage of position.” 

“What! it is you. Monsieur du Coudrais, who counts the 
enemy?” 

“I must account to the king, my master, for the lives of 
all these brave men,” said the officer, indicating with the 
end of his sword the impatient soldiers. “Now order, and 
you will see if I hesitate to let myself be killed.” 

“No, monsieur, you shall triumph with your grenadiers. 
They are two to our one. Well, we have for us the sight 
of that burning village! Each hut which falls in, cries for 
revenge. Forward !” 

Every member of the troop heard these words. The 
electrified soldiers bounded forward, and Jacques, one 
of the first to feel the transport, felt running in his 
veins the shudder of war. The Hungarians, after 
having prepared for battle, awaited the French. Thanks 
to the superiority of numbers, they counted upon 
an easy victory ; far from thinking of placing the river 
between themselves and their assailants-^which would 
have doubled their strength by the advantage of position 
— they ran to the encounter pell-mell and without order 


34 


THE SKIRMISH. 


as soon as they saw their opponents moving forward. The 
shock was terrible ; the fusillade burst along all the line, 
and the cavaliers clashed together with saber and pistol in 
hand. For a moment one might have believed success to 
bo doubtful. The combatants foimied a single moving mass 
bound by anger and the savage love of blood ; from this 
confused mass mounted a noise of steel mixed with bowl- 
ings of death. At each moment a man disappeared in the 
midst of that ocean of heads 'which was surrounded by a 
thousand flashes of light, where sounded the din of arms, 
and the space was contracted ; but the discharges of Mon- 
sieur du Coudrais’ grenadiers, who werei. fighting in good 
order, had lit up the enemy’s ranks; the Hungarians, 
crushed under a hail of balls coming from every side at 
the same time, pressed by the fiery impetuosity of the 
cavaliers who were inflamed by Monsieur d’Assonville’s 
example, gave way and lost ground. A soldier looked back, 
another turned bridle, a third threw himself all armed 
into the Ternoise, ten or twelve took to flight, an entire 
squadron gave way, then finally the whole troop recoiled 
in a frightful disorder. 

“Forward!” again cried Monsieur d'Assonville, and 
urging his horse up to the last combatants, he precipitated 
the whole troop into the river. When the horses plunged 
their feet in the water it was a rout. Hungarians and 
Croats rode away, at a gallop, throwing aside their mus- 
kets, and the saber cut to pieces the fugitives. 

Jacques saw for the first time and in close proximity all 
the horrors of combat. Emotion made his lips tremble; 
but the prancing of the horses, the flashing of swords, the 
noise of the explosions, the odor of powder, excited his 
youthful courage ; he brandished his saber with a firm 
hand and rushed straight before him. A Croat whom- he 
rubbed against in his course fired a pistol almost in his 
face; the ball traversed Jacques’ hat two inches from his 
forehead. Jacques replied by a furious thrust. The Croat 
fell upon his back with extended arms ; the saber had en- 
tered his throat. Jacques felt spouting upon his hand the 
warm and boiling blood. He looked at the paling soldier 
who was carried away by his frightened horse. It was the 
first man he had killed. Jacques lowered his saber point 
and shivered, but he was in the first row, and the whirl- 
wind pushed him forward. In the midst of the melee 
Jacques encountered Monsieur d’Assonville and staid by 
his side. These two were the first to make their horses 
enter the reddened river, but when only fugitives were 


THE SKIEMISH. 


35 


left they sheathed their sabers. The captain extended his 
hand to the soldier. 

“You have conducted yourself well, Jacques, ” he said 
to him. “Mordieu! you were right to wish to measure 
yourself against these robbers. You have paid them the 
price of your valise!” 

“Faith, sir, I have done what I could.” 

“Eh? my comrade, those men running will tell you that 
you have done too much.” 

The battle-field was encumbered with dead and 
wounded ; the enemy had left three hundred of their men 
upon the ground ; a hundred had remained in the hands 
of the French, so that the freebooters had lost 'the half of 
their troop. Meanwhile the clarions sounded, .and the 
soldiers scattered in all directions gathered together under 
their guidons. 

“You have mot yet joined the regiment, my boy, ” said 
Monsieur d’Assonville to Jacques; “therefore go about 
your business. Think that you have lost one valise, and do 
not hesitate to reimburse yourself with two. ’ ’ 

He took his way toward the river, head bowed and soul 
sick. How far away already was the peace of the cottage. 
It had not taken two days for Jacques to kill four or five 
men and wound seven or eight others. While walking in 
the midst of dead bodies, his eyes fell upon his hands. 
They were still moist and red, and a shiver traversed him. 
What a route then he was going to follow to reach Su- 
zanne, and what a bloody beginning his love had just 
offered him ! Jacques was standing at this moment where 
the melee had been most furious. -The ground was heaped 
with corpses, and in the midst of the extended Hungarians 
his vague and absent looks encountered a soldier who, 
fallen at twenty steps from the Ternoise, was trying to 
reach the bank. The Hungarian was crawling upon his 
hands and knees ; he dragged himself the space of some 
feet, then sank down. Jacques ran to him and raised him. 

“Water 1 water!” said the Hungarian, whose face was 
bathed in coagulated blood. “Water! I am burning!” 

Jacques transported him to the bank of the Ternoise, 
and presented to his burning lips a hat filled with water. 

The Hungarian bathed his face in this cold water and 
drank eagerly. 

“My throat is on fire, and my lips are like two hot 
irons,” said ho, licking the dripping brim of the hat. 

Jacques leaned him against the trunk of a tree and washed 
his face for him. The Hungarian had received a saber cut 


36 


THE SKIEMISH. 


upon the head and a ball in the stomach. When the mud 
and blood were cleaned off and left his features uncovered, 
Jacques uttered a cry. The wounded man raised his eyes 
to him. 

“Ah! you recognize me now,” said he, with a bitter 
laugh. “When you raised me I said nothing, for I was 
thirsty. Now finish me if you wish to do so. ” 

“Oh!” said Jacques, with an expression of horror. 

“Parbleu! you have the right to do it.” 

“The right of an assassin!” 

“Ah! you have those scruples! As for myself, I shall 

not be too conscientious if some day But you have 

placed me in too piteous a state for me to ever begin again. 
Diable! you have avenged yourseif well.” 

“No, I have fought, that is all.” 

“Oh, I am not vexed with you about it. If I had cracked 
your head for you, all this would not have happened. It 
is a lesson, but it is a little late for me to . make use of it ; 
let it profit you at least. ’ ’ 

The officer turned over on his side. 

“You see,” he resumed, “when you hold an enemy, the 
shortest way is to blow out his brains. It is a principle 
which I have alwaj^s put in practice; as a result of having 
forgotten it once, you see to what I am reduced ” 

A convulsion seized the Hungarian, who writhed at the 
foot of the tree. 

“Water! water!” he again murmured. “I have coals of 
fire in my stomach.” 

Jacques placed a hatful at his side, and ran to seek aid. 
He found Monsieur d’Assonville inspecting his troop, fol- 
lowed by a quartermaster, who was erasing the names of 
the dead from the company’s book. 

“The Hungarian officer who wished to hang me on the 
frontier of Artois is dying, ” Jacques said to him; “can 
I not get him transported to the ambulance so that he can 
receive the care which his condition calls for*?” 

Monsieur d’Assonville looked at Jacques. 

“Ah! it is the captain who wished to hang you on the 
frontier of Artois! ’Tis well, my boy, go ah sad.” 

Jacques left with two grenadiers The Hungarian officer 
was placed upon a litter lined with bundles of straw. Some 
drops of blood had congealed on the borders of his open 
wounds, and his teeth chattered with cold. The falconer’s 
son covered him with his coat. 

“What kind of a heart have you?” the officer brusquely 
said to him. 


THE SKIRMISH. 


37 


“The same as all the world.” 

“Par bleu! You are indeed the first inhabitant of that 
world whom I have met. ’ ’ 

The eyes of the Hungarian shone and were dimmed turn 
by turn; when he opened them he looked at Jacques. 

“Perhaps it is better,” he continued, “that I should be 
the one to leave and you to remain. 1 am of no account, 
and 3^ou have the air of an honest young man. Accident 
has turned out to be right. ” 

The Hungarian was silent for some minutes ; a convul- 
sive trembling agitated him, and his eyes were vailed. 
Suddenly he turned them toward J acques filled with an 
extraordinary fire. 

“Do you believe that there is something up there?” he 
sjicl to him, pointing to the sky with his finger. 

“God is there.” 

“Do you wish to give me your hand?” 

Jacques extended his hand to the old soldier, who 
])ressed it with more vigor than one could have expected 
of a man so cruelly wounded ; he threw himself back upon 
the straw and pulled Jacques’ coat over him. After the 
lapse of a moment, Jacques no longer hearing him speak 
or complain, leaned toward him. 

“How are you, my captain?” he said to him. 

“Quite well, my friend.” 

The glance was keen, the face softly colored, the voice 
clear. Jacques was silent, thinking that the Hungarian 
officer wished to sleep. When they arrived at the ambu- 
lance, he raised the coat; the Hungarian officer was dead. 
Two hours after, the troop had collected at the Abbaye de 
St. Georges, around tables prepared for their enemies. 
They laughed heartily and ate with a good appetite. If the 
wounded were pitied, the dead were forgotten ; the living 
congratulated each other, and everything went off well 
enough. Monsieur d’Assonville conducted Jacques to a 
room of the abbey in which a table was set. 

“Sit down there, ” he said to him. 

“Me! near you?” 

“After the combat, there is no longer either master or 
servant — there are only soldiers. Sit down, I tell you, and 
relate your history to me. ” 

Monsieur d’Assonville was no longer the brilliant offi- 
cer whose eyes flashed lightning at the moment of battle ; 
the sadness had returned to his forehead and the pallor to 
his cheeks, where the sharp line of his mustache was out- 
lined like a pencil-mark upon alabaster ; to the generous 


38 


THE SKIRMISH. 


ardor, to the manly pride, to the bold impatience whose 
flame just now colored his handsome face, a sweet and 
melancholy smile had succeeded. Jacques felt himself at 
tdie same time touched and attracted by that mysterious 
sadness whose source must originate in the depth of the 
heart. He sat down and related the innocent story of his 
youth, of his love, and of his departure. Monsieur d’As- 
sonville listened to him; for a moment his eyes were 
moistened at the narrative of the innocent love of Jacques, 
but this moment was so brief that Jacques did not even 
see his humid eyeball shine. Monsieur d’Assonville car- 
ried his glass to. his mouth. 

“I drink to your hopes,” said he. 

Jacques sighed. 

“It is the fortune of the poor!” he murmured. “If 
your sweetheart has an honest and sincere heart, keep 
them ; but if she is weak like the reed or deceitful like the 
wind, boldl3^ drive them from your mind. Hetrayed hopes 
are like thorns which lacerate.” 

“I hope because I believe,” replied Jacques. 

“You are eighteen!” exclaimed Monsieur d’Assonville, 
and a flash of bitter irony passed over his eyes. Then, 
more softly, he resumed: 

“Believe, Jacques; belief is the perfume of life and the 
ornament of youth ; woe to those who have not believed — 
they have not loved; they die without having lived.” 

Monsieur d’Assonville pressed both of Jacques’ hands; 
the reflection of an ill-extinguished passion illuminated his 
face, and he swallowed his glass at a draught. 

“Of what am I thinking?” he presently said; “it is a 
question of love and not of philosophy. Come, Jacques, 
what do you count on doing?” 

“I have told you — to go to Paris and seek fortune, unless 
you consent to keep me with you.” 

“Wo will see about that later, and I shall willingljT- con- 
sent if my company can be of service to you. But suppose 
for a moment that you have arrived at Paris — what will 
you do there?” 

“Frankly, I do not know; I shall knock at every door.” 

“It is an excellent means to enter none. Have you some 
money?” 

“Yes, fifty livres which have been stolen from me, and 
which I hope to recover along with my valise.” 

“And fifteen louis which I shall give you as your part of 
the booty. ’ ’ 

“Fh? but that makes — 


THE SKIRMISH. 39 

“That makes fifteen loiiis. In war, as in love, what one 
loses is lost. ’ ’ 

“Ah!” 

“With three hundred and sixty livres you have just 
about enough to beat about the streets of Paris for two 
months, after which you will have the resource of making 
a lackey of yourself.” 

“I would rather throw myself into the river.” 

!‘That is not the way to ma ry Mademoiselle de Malzon- 
villiers. ” 

“True. I can always make a soldier of myself. ” 

“That is difficult. In the trade of arms you have twenty 
chances to get your head cracked and one to win epau- 
lettes.” 

“Not many, to be sure.” 

“But at Paris, for two chances to make a fortune, you 
have twelve to die of hunger — unless you consent to prac- 
tice certain trades which are repugnant to honest people.” 

“The ‘not many’ of just now is reduced to none. ” 

“Ah! my friend, you have undertaken a rough job, in 
which courage and perseverance can only win in case acci- 
dent places itself on their side.” 

“While waiting for its consent to do so, what do you 
advise me?” 

“That is what we are mutually going to decide upon. 
Empty that bottle of old Burgundy. Wine brings counsel; 
it shows as easy the most extravagant things, and those 
are the only kind which are worth while attempting. 
When you wish to become a captain, you must think of 
becoming a general. ’ ’ 

“General!” exclaimed Jacques, thoroughly astonished. 

“Certainly if I was foolish enough to relish love, I 
would risk myself with princesses of the blood.” 

“Well, for a beginning, what do you say to incorpor- 
ating me in the light-horse?” 

“Eh! the uniform is pretty! If you take care to avoid 
the grape-shot, the bullets, the balls, the grenades, and 
other mischievous projectiles, if you are neither killed 
nor amputated, if you always conduct yourself valiantly, 
if you never get punished, if you distinguish yourself by 
some splendid action, and if luck smiles upon you, you can 
count upon the gold lace of a quarter-master at the age of 
forty-eight. You have to take care that a lieutenant does 
not take it into his head to look at you askew because you 
failed to salute him properly, in which case you would run 
the risk of remaining a brigadier up to your sixtieth year. ” 


40 


THE SKIRMISH. 


Jacques let fall liis glass. 

“It is neither you nor I who have made the world what 
it is, and it is not your fault if your father was not at 
least a chevalier. A prudent father, in the times in which 
we live, ought always to he horn a count or a haron.” 

“Monsieur, I go to Paris,” exclaimed Jacques, fright- 
ened. 

“To Paris! eh! eh! it is an amiable city for rich and 
handsome young men ; hut when you have only the hand- 
some part, it is well enough to avoid entering the caharet. 
Gentlemen leave it tipsy, poor devils leave it plucked. 
Paris is a place where pleasures abound, only they cost 
very dear, above all those which cost nothing. It is true 
that when one is a handsome fellow, one has an additional 
chance. My faith, yes! Why the devil did I not think of 
it? One might please some dowager who places you then 
in her affections just between her spaniel and her con- 
fessor; in the morning you leave her apartment through 
the secret door. At the end of a month you are a boarder 
at the house in quality of secretary ; you have a florid 
complexion, a vermilion mouth, and have the whole day 
to repose 3^ourself . ’ ’ 

Jacques made a gesture of disgust. 

“No! then there remains to us the hope of becoming an 
intendant. Good trade! Do you know how to steal, 
Jacques?” 

Jacques grew pale and stood up. 

“Monsieur!” said he, in a voice strangled by emotion. 

Monsieur d’Assonville looked at him without a muscle 
of his face trembling. Jacques ran his hands through the 
long curls of his blonde hair. A deep sigh came from his 
breast, and he sat down again. 

“Pardon me. Monsieur le Comte, ” he said ; “I did not 
expect this outrage from you who have slept in my 
father’s arms ! You have undoubtedly wished to punish 
me for having so promptly forgotten the distance which 
exists between us, but you have done it maliciously, Mon- 
sieur le Comte. You have no desire to come to my aid, I 
can well see. I will take counsel, then, of circumstances; 
but, whatever may come to pass and in whatever situation 
I find myself, believe me, never shall I forget that I have, 
for judging me, my God up yonder and my father here 
below.” 

“You are an honest and loyal fellow, friend Jacques, 
and I am proud to press your hand,” replied Monsieur 
d’Assonville, “I have wished to prove you, and now that 


41 


THE INTEEIOR OF A BAKEACK. 

I know your soul is as firm as your arrq is strong, I will 
speak to you like a man. You have nothing to gain in the 
light-horse. Were you the best-informed, the boldest, and 
the most intelligent soldier in the company, the slenderest 
younger son sent from Paris by the court would pass over 
you. Neither would you gain anything at Paris. With a 
conscience tempered like steel, one never arrives at any- 
thing — unless to be duke and peer at the most. Remain a 
soldier — soldiers can preserve their honor pure — hut 
enter the artillery. There alone a man who has valor, 
deportment, and some knowledge can push himself, even 
though he is not a gentleman. You have youth and a. turn 
which is worth something. God will do the rest; there 
are a thousand accidents between you and the object, but 
Suzanne is at the end of the road ! I have a brother who 
commands a company of sappers at Laon. I will give you 
a letter to him. He is my exact counterpart. Guillaume 
Grinedal’s son will not leave the family.” 

Jacques took Monsieur d’Assonville’s hands and kissed 
them without being able to speak. The next day, carrying 
in a purse the fifteen gold louis which the captain had 
given him, and mounted upon a good and well-equipped 
horse, he left the abbey. 

“Here is the letter,” Monsieur d’Assonville said to him; 
“if you experience some regret to quit me, I experience as 
much to lose you, but it is necessary for you to arrive at 
Malzonvilliers, and the shortest way passes through Laon. 
Go then to Laon. If ever you have need of me, you will 
find me. Adieu, my friend. ” 

Jacques pressed the captain’s hand and set spurs to his 
horse so as not to let him see that his eyes were filled with 
tears. He already had the pride of a soldier. 


CHAPTER V. 

THE INTERIOR OF A BARRACK. 

Jacques arrived without hindrance at Laon. The first 
soldier whom ho met pointed out to him the dwelling of 
Monsieur de Naucrais. No sooner than the captain recog- 
nized his brother’s handwriting he gave orders to have 
the traveler introduced. Monsieur de Naucrais was a large 
man, severe and nervous; his gray eyes, shaded by thick, 
brown lashes, separated at their meeting point by a deep 


42 


THE INTEEIOR OF A BARRACK. 


"wrinkle, shown with an extraordinary fire; a long tawny 
mnstache divided his face made thin by the fatigues of 
war ; he had, while speaking, the habit of twisting its 
sharp points between his fingers, without taking his eyes 
off the person whom he was questioning. This look, clear 
and keen as a steel point, seemed to penetrate to the in- 
most depth of consciences, and the most hardened felt 
themselves troubled by its fixity. Monsieur de Naucrais 
was two or three years younger than his brother and ap- 
l^eared to be three or four years older. The habit of com- 
mand, and above all, his naturally imperious character, 
gave to his whole person an air of authority which over- 
awed at the first glance. It was necessary to stop at the 
features of the face to find some resemblance between the 
two brothers. There was none in the physiognomy. Mon- 
sieur de Naucrais was holding IMonsieur d’Assonville’s let- 
ter in his hand when Jacques entered. He silently consid- 
ered him for two or three minutes. 

“You come from St. Pal?” the captain finally said. 

“I left there a quarter of an hour ago.” 

“From what my brother remarks, you intend to make a 
soldier of yourself.” 

“Yea, captain.” 

“It is a trade in which there is more lead than money 
to gain.” 

“It is also the most honorable for a man of courage who 
wishes to push himself in the world.” 

“That concerns you; but I must warn you that in the 
artillery, and in my company, above all, one is a slave to 
discipline. At the first fault the awkward soldier is 
placed in the dungeon, at the second he is flogged by the 
line, at the third he is shot.” 

“I shall endeavor not to go to the dungeon, in order to 
be always far from the musket.” 

“That is your affair. You know the regime of my com- 
pany — does it still please you to enter it?” 

“Yes, captain.” 

“Monsieur d’Assonville speaks to me of you as a deter- 
mined fellow. You have seen fire, he says, and have con- 
ducted yourself well under it.” 

“I have done my duty. ” 

“That is well. Starting from to-day, you are a soldier in 
my company; recollect to always follow the straight line, 
and do not oblige me to punish you ; I would do it piti- 
lessly, so much the more that being recommended to me 
by my brother, I wish you to be worthy of my protection. 


THE INTEBIOK OF A BAilllACK. 


43 


Your father’s name engages me besides to redouble my 
severity as regards you ; I intend to prove to him that you 
d(^serve to be his son.” 

Jacques prepared to reply; Monsieur de Naucrais 
stopped him with a gesture. 

“Your name is Jacques,” he continued. 

“Yes, captain.” 

“It is a common name; we do not need it in the regi- 
ment. You will call yourself ” 

^‘As you wish. ” 

“Par bleu! that is the way I understand it! All sol- 
diers have names.” 

“Yes, names which do not belong to them?” 

“But that is the case with mine! Do you believe, per- 
chance, that I need their consent to baptize them?” 

“Is that also a part of the discipline’?’ asked Jacques, 
blushing. 

“Yes, my boy, ” replied Monsieur de -Naucrais, who 
could not refrain from smiling. “But, mon Dieu, I have 
your name; it is written upon your face.” 

“Ah! Therefore I am to call myself ” 

“Belle-Rose.” 

Monsieur de Naucrais rang his bell ; a soldier entered, 
the captain \yhispered a few words to him, the soldier 
went out and returned five minutes after with a corporal 
of sappers. 

“Monsieur Deroute,” said Monsieur de Naucrais to 
the non-commissioned officer, “here is a recruit whom I 
confide to you ; you will take him to the mess, instruct 
him in the profession, and render me an account of his 
conduct. ^ Go.” 

In spite of his formidable name, Corporal Deroute was 
an excellent man who asked nothing better than to be of 
service to some one. When both of them were in the 
street, the corporal and the recruit, Deroute turned to 
our friend Jacques, now called Belle-Rose. 

“It appears that you have been warmly recommended 
to the captain, ” he said to him ; “he has never spoken so 
long apropos of a soldier. ” 

“So long? a dozen words ” 

“Eh! that is just three times as many as he is accus- 
tomed to pronounce. When a recruit reaches the comi)any, 
Monsieur de Naucrais questions him, then he sends for a 
corporal, and pointing the man out to him, says to him : 
‘Here is a soldier, enter him, ’ and he turns his back. Oh ! 
the captain is a terrible man, ’ ’ 


44 


THE INTEillOll OF A BAllHACK. 


“Ball!” said Belle-Rose, “I have seen him smile,” 

“He has smiled?” 

“Like every one else! Does this never happen to him, 
then?” 

“Yes, sometimes, but not often. I, who am an old mem- 
ber of the company, know that he has a better heart than 
countenance, but he has for recruits a devil of an air 
which frightens the most headstrong. If he wishes you 
well, you will soon arrive at the epaulettes.” 

“Advancement then is rapid among you?” 

“That depends. Where the sieges kill a great many offi- 
cers, it is necessary to replace them ; then choice is made 
among the younger artillerymen or among the most skill- 
ful and valiant soldiers.” 

“So that, to win epaulettes, it is necessary for the enemy 
to scatter bullets among us. ’ ’ 

“Which they do not fail to do.” 

“Those kind Spaniards!” 

“Oh! our commander owes his grade to them. Therefore 
he has sworn to burn a taper in their honor in the very 
middle of Namur. Monsieur Delorme, who is at the head 
of the battalion, entered as a sapper like yourself. He 
has seen ten caxitains and three commanders jiass over the 
river — three or four bullets and half a dozen grenades did 
the work. ’ ’ 

“Faith, the sapper’s trade is an excellent one.” 

“Very fine indeed. Only for one officer who loses a leg 
thirty soldiers lose their heads.” 

“Ah!” 

“It is a calculation which I have amused myself with 
figuring out during my leisure hours. You can see it 
demonstrated at our first encounter, ” 

Belle-Rose said nothing and scratched his ear ; at the end 
of the street he turned to the corporal. 

“Monsieur Deroute,” said he, “do you permit me to 
address you a question?” 

“Two if you wish.” 

“You have told me, I believe, that in the artillery one 
advances or one dies.” 

“Yes, comrade; the grape-shot serves as an aid to pro- 
motion.” 

“How long have you been in the service?” 

“Eighteen years.” 

“The deuce you say!’ 

“That is an explanation which proves to me that your 
mind has just delivered itself to an arithmetical operation. 


THE INTERIOR OP A BARRACK. 


45 


If it lias taken the sapper Deroute eighteen years to he- 
coine a corporal, how long will it take the sapper Belle- 
Rose to become a captain? That is what we call a rule of 
three. Have I guessed it?” 

“To a nicety.” 

“Here the rule of three is wrong. Perhaps it will only 
take you three months to mount to the grade of sergeant. 
As to myself, I shall die a corporal. There is a particular 
reason for it. I have been a groom ; now one of our young 
officers, Monsieur de Villebrais, who had seen me wearing 
the livery, has recognized me. They do not make an offi- 
cer of a groom. If, thanks to the protection of Monsieur 
de Naucrais, I become a halberdier, that is as far as 1 shall 
get.” 

Deroute made this avowal with a simple and resigned 
air which touched Belle-Rose. The soldier took the cor- 
poral’s hand and pressed it; then both arrived at the bar- 
rack. A uniform, a gun, a saber, a poniard, and a pair of 
pistols were given to the new-comer, and Belle-Rose, thor- 
oughly equipped, mounted guard for the first time. The 
following day he was taught how to handle arms. At the 
end of a quarter of an hour the corporal perceived that in 
this respect the recruit was able to give lessons to the pro- 
fessor. On the day following the next he was placed in the 
first elements of calculation. Belle-Rose leaped over the 
four rules and suddenly reached regions where each figure 
was a letter.. He answered problems by means of equa- 
tions. The following day the corporal placed a piece of 
chalk between his fingers. While he was teaching him the 
principles of linear drawing, striving to demonstrate to 
him the difference which separates a parallelogram from 
a trapezium, Belle-Rose was scribbling on a slip of paper 
on the corner of the table. When the demonstration was 
finished, so was the scribbling, and the corporal laughed 
heartily on recognizing the locks of his black h^ir glued 
flat to his temples, and his pug nose between two eyes 
planted in Chinese fashion. 

“Ah! you are a x^rince’s son!” exclaimed the corporal 
throwing down his chalk. 

“I have always held my mother for a very honest wo- 
man, and my father was a falconer ” 

The poor Deroute had studied under the sergeant pro- 
fessor, and as the opportunity presented itself ; but 
Deroute only knew what it was necessary for a corporal of 
sappers to know. When Deroute was embarrassed, he be- 
gan by reflecting, but when the embarrassment was ex- 


46 THE INTElliOR OF A BABHACK. 

treine, he wound up by going to his captain. On this -occa- 
sion he went straight to Monsieur, de Naucrais without 
even reflecting. The case "was grave. 

“Cai)tain, you have placed an engineer in the mess,” he 
said to him; “you have charged me with instructing Belle- 
Rose, and it is Belle-Rose who instructs his corporal. 
What must I do?” 

“Send Belle-Rose to me. ” 

After a short conversation, Monsieur de Naucrais en- 
gaged his brother’s protege to continue his studies in 
mathematics, and to join to them the study of languages. 

“We are all more or less engineers or cannoneers,” he 
said to him; “when you know thoroughly trigonometry 
and Spanish, you will not be far from the epaulettes. You 
will begin the lessons to-morrow.” 

Belle-Rose“ often studied the theory of the square of the 
hypothenuse and took upon paper a bastion defended by a 
telescope. Sometimes Suzanne’s image came to confuse 
the angles, and the recollection of the promenades in the 
garden caused a sunken road to miss its effect ; but Belle- 
Rose took up again the calculation and the siege, saying 
to himself that each flgure and each assault drew him so 
much nearer his sweetheart. One fine day, toward noon, 
as he was leaving his room, mixing together in his mind 
love and mathematics, a soldier ran up against him on the 
stair-way. 

“Devil take the awkward fellow!” exclaimed the sol- 
dier. 

“It seems to me that it is you who have jostled me,” 
said Belle-Rose. “I was passing to the right, you were 
mounting on the left, and you have run against me. Who 
is the awkward one, if you please?” 

‘ ‘ ’Ron my word ! I believe he reasons ! Do you mean to 
contradict me, young fellow?” 

“In truth, I was wrong — I should not have said awk- 
ward, but insolent.” 

The soldier raised his hand, but Belle-Rose seized it in 
the air, and grabbing his adversary by the throat, he 
hurled him rudely down the stair-way. At the noise of 
this struggle, some sappers ran up, and seeing what was 
passing, rushed to the combatants in order to separate 
them. It was time ; Belle-Rose had placed one knee upon 
the breast of the soldier, who was breathing hard. 

“You shall follow me; a man who has such a strong 
hand ought to know how to hold a sword,” said the sol- 
dier, after he had risen. 


THE INTERIOli OF A BAKKACK. 


47 


For sole reply, Belle-Rose made him a sign to go ahead. 
They noiselessly left the city and stopped in the country 
behind an old cemetery where no one passed. The adyor- 
saries threw aside their coats, and drawing their swords, 
began to fence. The soldier, who was a cannoneer named 
Bouletord, pushed Belle- Rose with so much fury that the 
latter was forced to break twice. 

“Oh! oh!” exclaimed his enemy, “it appears that what 
you have retained best of your studies is the art of re- 
treat.” 

Belle Rose made no rei)ly and continued to parry. He 
attempted — not being angry just now — to disarm Bonle- 
tord ; but the cannoneer was too skilful to permit him to 
do it. In breaking a third time, Belle-Rose stumbled 
against a stone. Bouletord profited by the accident to 
make a thrust which would have pierced him through and 
through, if the sapper, returning quickly to parade, had 
not turned it aside. The sword glided along his body and 
tore his shirt, which was stained by some drops of blood. 
Peril returned to Belle-Rose some of his anger; in his 
turn he began to press Bouletord, who broke, but not 
quickly enough to avoid a thrust in the fleshy part of the 
arm. Belle-Rose kept on advancing; a second thrust 
wounded the cannoneer in the shoulder; he wished to 
parry, but a third time the sword of the sapper wounded 
his adversary and penetrated his breast. Bouletord tot- 
tered and fell upon his knees. 

“I am done for, comrade,” said he; and he fainted. 

Belle-Rose, having returned to the barrack, related to 
Deroute what had taken place. 

“It is unpleasant,” the corporal said to him, “but it was 
inevitable.” 

Belle-Ro§e looked him in the face. 

“Oh!” continued the corporal, “it is a part of the regi- 
mental manners! They ha^e wished to sound you. Boule- 
tord is a sounder. When a recruit enters the corps, a sol- 
dier provokes him ; anjdhing serves for a pretext under 
such circumstances ; he gives or receives a sword thrust 
on account of it. If the recruit fights well, he has nothing 
more to fear, let him he victor or vanquished ; but if he is 
afraid, he is lost. You have been made to i^ass through the 
baptism of steel. ” 

“The duel is nevertheless forbidden.” 

“That is an excellent reason for its being fought all the 
• more.” 

“But what is the result of it?” 


48 


LOST ILLUSIONS. 


“Nothing. Soldiers fight and the officers close their 
eyes.” 

“Therefore I have nothing to do.” 

“You have only to keep silence. Bouletord will he car- 
ried to the hospital and will say nothing; your two wit- 
nesses will he mute as carps; it is the soldier’s religion. 
Perform your duties as if you were not concerned in the 
affair, and if Monsieur de Naucrais learns all about it, be 
sure that be will pretend to know nothing.” 

“But the surgeon will visit Bouletord?” 

“The surgeon will say that Bouletord has the fever; if 
he gets well, it wull be said that the fever has left him.” 

“And if he dies?” 

“He will be dead of the fever.” 

Belle-Rose laughed. 

“I do not laugh, ” continued the corporal; “I have al- 
ready seen die in that fashion half a dozen sa]')pers, and 
some of the malignant fever, others of the red fever. The 
red fever is a saber cut, the malignant fever is a sword 
thrust; it is the most dangerous. Fever is the soldier’s 
providence. Go to bed. ’ ’ 


CHAPTER VI. 

LOST ILLUSIONS. 

Everything passed off as Deroute predicted it would. , 
Bouletord entered the hospital; the surgeon visited him 
and declared that he was sick of an intermittent fever. 
Monsieur de Naucrais feigned to believe what the surgeon 
had said, but meeting Belle-Rose alone one day upon the 
rampart, he brusquely said to him : 

“I have been told that you recently came near contract- 
ing the fever. Take care, I do not like it to be given or re- 
ceived. I can, however, look over it for once.” 

“It has stopped,” boldly replied Belle-Rose, “the attack 
has passed away.” 

Monsieur de Naucrais smiled. Bouletord got well, and 
nothing more was said about it. Some months passed, 
then a year, then two, then three; Belle-Rose wrote fre- 
quently to St. Omer; in the replies which he received from 
there there was always some souvenir from Suzanne, a 
word, a flower of the new season, something which came 
from the heart and went to the heart. Already the fal- ' 
coner’s son had passed beyond Deroute; Monsieur de 


LOST ILLUSIONS. 


49 


Naucrais, who loved him in his way, was only waiting, 
he said, for an occasion to let him get wounded in the ser- 
vice of the king in order to ask the epaulettes for him. 
Belle-Rose prayed for a battle; hut the Spaniards remained 
upon the frontier, peaceably ensconced in their quarters. 
After the generals the turn of the ambassadors had come. 
Instead of making war, they were carrying on negotia- 
tions. Louis XIV. had married. 

Peace did not suit Belle-Rose; therefore he was much 
vexed. When Monsieur de Naucrais, the morning after the 
report was read, saw Belle-Rose care-worn, he asked him 
if the news was warlike. 

“No,” replied the sergeant; “it would be well-timed to 
give distaffs to the soldiers — at least, they would be good 
for something.” 

“Here is a droll fellow who, in order to light more 
quickly the nuptial torch, would willingly set fire to the 
four corners of Europe, ” Monsieur de Naucrais gayly re- 
sponded. 

But as soon as the sergeant became too gloomy, the cap- 
tain confided to him the command of small detachments 
w hich were sent to serve in the fortifications at Bethune, 
Peronne, Amiens, St. Pal, and other towns in Picardy and 
Artois. 

In the meantime Bejle-Rose received a letter whose su- 
perscription made his heart beat ; he had just recognized 
Suzanne’s handwriting. - It was the first time that she had 
written to him directly. There is in the first letter of the 
first woman you love an infinite^sweetness which suffuses 
the ej^es with divine tears. It brings am indefinable emo- 
tion which nothing can ever afterward replace ; the fingers 
caress the paper, the lips touch it softly ; there escapes 
from it a perfume which the soul inhales, and it is an en- 
chantment whose recollection again makes warm the heart 
of the saddest old men. Belle-Rose kissed this letter a 
thousand times before breaking the seal, then he ran into 
the country in order to give to his confused but delightful 
sensations the silence which permits them to be enjoyed. 
When he had concealed himself in the shade of the lin- 
dens, far from the dusty paths along which rises the noise 
of cities, he tore open the envelope and read what follows: 

“When 5’ou left St. Omer, mj' friend, you were eighteen and I fif- 
teen ; more than tliree years have rolled away since that time, and not 
a single day has passed without my thinking of you. The memory of 
you dwells in my heart as I live in yours ; each time that your letters 
announce your progress' and your advancement, I have rejoiced. I 


50 


LOST ILLUSIONS. 


felt happy at your success, and proud to have placed my affections on 
one who deserved them. In solitude my mind has matured, my friend. 
The future which we have dreamed of together, and which we have 
promised one another to reach, is still sweet to me, and it is toward 
it that my illusions turn when I wish to taste an hour of tranquil hap- 
piness. Hope lulls my heart as a mother does her child. Claudine, 
my friend, the confidante of my dreams, often animates them with her 
joyous words, and gives them all the deceitful hopes of reality. The 
dawn finds us oftentimes talking in low tones along the hedges where 
the birds chatter; many times the twilight surprises us still in the mead- 
ows, walking with clasped hands, and together we watch the golden 
bands extinguished, and gaze at the last smile pf the sun which lights 
up the tops of the poplars. She has your name upon her lips and 
embraces me ; it is in my heart, and I am silent. As to my father, he 
takes up his time in informing himself about the price of securities so 
as to increase his fortune, which I find too large already. He assures 
me that jt is for my happiness, and I cannot make him hear reason on 
the subject. He purchases hay one day, and wheat the next— then he 
sells the whole at a large profit. It is for my dowry, he tells me. It 
is a strange thing ; the persons who are most attached to us act ac- 
cording to their fancy when they believe they act for our good, and work 
to satisfy their own taste when they pretend to work for our haiJ2)i- 
ness. I should like to lengthen this letter in order to delay the mo- 
ment when I must talk to you about the affair which touches both of 
us most closely. But what good would result from it? Will it not 
always be necessary fo^ me to force my mind to instruct you about it ? 
Honesty requires it. When you shall have read this letter to the end, 
you will weep over me, over yourself, but you wall pardon me. My 
will has submitted to the evil, it has not brought it about. You know 
my father’s reply to your proposition ; since that day he has never 
conversed wfith me about your love and your hopes ; only, when the 
progress which you were making in the esteem of your chiefs was sj^o- 
ken of, he said that he w^as not astonished at it and that yoii w^ere ca- 
pable of succeeding in anything. At these times I felt an extraordi- 
nary desire to embrace him. Some time ago, M. de Malzonvilliers, on 
returning from a journey which he had made to Calais, introduced me 
to a young gentleman of good appearance. A secret instinct — an in- 
stinct of the heart no doubt — told me that this young seigneur did not 
come to Malzonvilliers on commercial affairs, and I felt my heart con- 
tract . This young nobleman had a very keen wdt, and altogether the 
air of a man of good family; but you could see that he spoke before 
reflecting, and that above all he was occupied with pleasure and frivo- 
lous things. He remained eight or ten days at the chateau^ during 
W'hich it w^as impossible for me to go out w^alking with Claudine, un- 
less I went in the morning very early, or in the evening while the 
stranger was paying a visit to the nobility of St. Omer. At the end of 
this time the gentleman went away : I scarcely had time to breathe 
when a grave seigneur rej^laced him at the chateau. The latter was as 
sedentary as the other was active ; he had a kind disposition, and 
though suffering from old w^ounds, a noble and easjr carriage. His 
discourse was j^layful, but always honest — his manners polite, and you 
felt attracted by the expression of his physiognomy, wdiile at the same 
time you were seized- with respect at the sight of his gray mustache 
and some scars which furrowed his bald forehead. This seigneur w^as 


LOST ILLUSIONS. 


Si 

iiamed M. d’Albergotti. He wafi a marquis, belonged to a family of 
Italiuii origin ^vllicll had held a considerable rank in Milan, and wore 
the cordon of St. Louis. IVI. d’Albergotti had traveled much ; his con- 
versation was interesting, his kindness touched me, and I experienced 
some sorrow when he quitted Malzonvilliers to go to Compiegne, 
where M. de Tureune had summoned him. He had only left the even- 
ing before, when my father, taking me by the arm, drew me into the 
garden. You know that such is not his habit ; as soon as he has an 
hour to spare, he shuts himself up in his room, and immediately one 
or two sheets of paper are covered with figures. Therefore I looked 
at him in astonishment ; he began to laugh. 

‘‘‘Oh!’ he said to me, ‘I have serious things to speak to you 
about.’ 

“This prelude increased mj^ surprise, and without knowing why, I 
was afraid. 

“ ‘1 have thought of marrying you to some one,’ continued my 
father ; ‘you have just seen your two suitors.’ 

“ ‘'I’he Comte de Poniereux and M. d’Albergotti !’ I exclaimed more 
dead than alive. 

“ ‘You are right, my child.’ 

“I believe that if my father had not sustained me, I should have 
fallen, . 

“ ‘You are a little fool,’ he continued, making me sit down upon a 
bench. ‘Has marriage then something frightful for you ? I do not 
pretend, besides, to dictate your choice. You will choose between the 
count and the marquis.’ 

“1 was thunderstruck and knew not what to reply. Some tears 
gushed from my eyes, and I concealed my head between my hands. 
My father tapped the ground with the end of his cane. 

“ ‘Come, my daughter, be reasonable,’ he resumed ; ‘I love Jacques a 
great deal, and I am ready to prove it to him ; but, in conscience, you 
cannot marry him.’ 

“I will not repeat to you all he said to bring me to his opinion; I 
heard nothing and saw nothing but you, who seemed to be standing 
in front of me. 

“ ‘Lastly,’ he added in conclusion, ‘you will be a marquise or a 
countess, and that is a consolation.’ 

“ ‘I promised to wait for him !’ I exclaimed, suffocated by tears. 

“ ‘Eh ! here is another folly !’ replied my father, and thereupon he 
said to me many things which I did not comprehend at the time, but 
which have since returned to my memory, and which I will not relate 
to you at length. He spoke of our fortune and of the happiness i 
would enjoy in being rich and titled ; all this was said without malice 
and in the best faith in the world. When M. de Malzonvilliers left 
me I was like one stupefied. At the end of an hour my troubled si^irit 
had grown calm, and I promised myself to never marry any one but 
you. Toward evening, thoroughly resolved to follow my project, I 
went to your house to relate to Claudine what had taken place. It was 
your father who received me. What came over me, my friend, when 
I heard him exhort me to forget you ! I resisted ; then, taking my 
hands in his, and bowing his forehead loaded with white hair before 
mine, he im])lored me to obey M. de Malzonvilliers; in the name of his 
own honor and also in the name qf^yours, Jacques ! He did not wish 
the accusation to be brought against him of having tolerated our mu- 


52 


LOST ILLUSIONS. 


tual affection, nor did he wish it supposed that you had been guilty of 
having abused my father’s confidence in the hope of marrying me in 
order to increase your fortune. He assured me that never would he con- 
sent to the union of his son with a person who would choose him 
against the will of her family. 1 have seen this old man weep, my 
friend, and I have gone away thoroughly upset. In my loneliness I 
have thrown myself at the feet of an old priest, my confessor. He has 
listened to me with pious charity. ‘Kaise your soul to God,’ he has 
said to me, ‘and make him an offering of your grief; children owe 
obedience to their parents.’ 

“For one moment I thought of taking the vail ; but I understood 
that if I gave myself to God, I was lost to you. Just at the moment I 
w^as most worried your sister came to me. She was no longer the 
laughing and frolicsome girl whom you have known, Her eyes were 
red with weeping. ‘ Suzanne,’ she said to me, ‘ it is your duty to 
obey. He loves you too well not to pardon you.’ My father came up. 
I understood that he was expecting my reply : I threw myself weep- 
ing into his arms. He kissed me on the forehead; his joy was my only 
consolation at that supreme hour. ‘ Whom have you chosen ?’ he said 
to me. Alas ! I had not even thought of that ! The two gentlemen 
presented themselves to my mind. M. de Pomereux was young and 
handsome, the other was old and suffering. I did not hesitate. ‘ M. 
d’Albergotti,’ I replied. My father appeared astonished, but he did 
not manifest his surprise otherwise than by a movement of the lips. 
‘ So be it,’ said he, ‘I am going to write to him.’ Two days after M. 
d’Albergotti returned to Malzonvilliers. ‘I owe you some gratitude,’ 
he said to me ; ‘ but be assured that I will endeavor, to give you as 
much happiness as you could hope for from a father.’ His voice and 
the look which accompanied these words touched me deeply, and I 
placed my hand in his. Have courage, my friend ; honor and doty 
commanded me to do what I have done ; you will suffer with me with- 
out condemning me. We will accustom ourselves to think of each 
other only as a brother thinks of a sister. You will be mine, and none 
other than you and my husband shall enter a heart which has taken 
refuge in God. Farewell, Jacques, in three days I will be the wife of 
another ; it will no longer be permitted me to write to you. Through 
pity, do not despair ; your despair w’ould render me mad, and even 
now I hardly possess enough reason to exhort you to the sacrifice. But 
is not my part the most bitter? You remain free — free to love— and I 
am enchained. Suzanne.” 

When Jacques finished this reading, he arose. His face 
was as white as a taper; no tear dimmed the feverish bril- 
liancy of his glance; he, who was easily moved, remained 
impassible while facing this profound grief which lacer- 
ated his entire being. He walked with a quick but firm 
step toward the house of Monsieur de Naucrais and en- 
tered. The captain was at work. At the name given him 
by the sapper on guard, Monsieur de Naucrais, without 
turning around, asked Belle-Rose what he wanted. 

“A leave,” replied the sergeant. 

“Hey!” said the captain. “You wish a leave?” 


LOST ILLUSIONS. 


53 


“Yes, monsieur.” 

The captain quitted his desk. If the voice of Belle-Rose 
had appeared altered to him, the expression of his counte- 
nance had astonished him. 

“What is the matter with you?” he said to him. 

“I must leave for St. Omer. ” 

“To-day?” 

“This moment. ” 

“And if I do not wish to give you this leave?” 

“I would recommend my soul to God, my body to Mon- 
sieur d’Assonyille, and would afterward blow out my 
brains.” 

“There would perhaps be no great harm in that ; it would 
be a task the less for my sapper.” 

“I am waiting, my captain,” said Belle-Rose. 

Monsieur de Naucrais eyed him a minute; he was a man 
who knew something about faces. The expression of the 
sergeant’s made him comprehend that Belle-Rose had 
taken an irrevocable resolution, and that this resolution 
came from a violent shock. He loved the son of the old 
falconer more than he permitted it to be seen, therefore 
he came to an immediate decision. 

“But what, then, is taking place at St. Omer?” said he. 

“Mademoiselle de Malzonvilliers is to get married.” 

“Well! how does that concern you?” 

“I love her.” 

“ Ah ! that is an excellent reason ! Behind all the follies 
which men undertake, seek, and you find a woman. Come, 
Belle-Rose, what will you do at St. Omer?” 

“I shall see her.” 

“And if she does not wish to receive you?” 

“It will happen as God wills.” 

“This is frenzy ! My brother and you yourself have re- 
lated to me this story, but I had forgotten it. A soldier’s 
love is an autumn flower.” 

Belle Rose looked at the clock ; this movement did not 
escape Monsieur de^^^aucrais. 

“Eh ! my boy, we have only been talking a quarter of 
an hour. What is that?” 

“It is an order.” 

The captain approached the table, wrote some words on 
a slip of paper, and signed. 

“Go to the devil!” said he to Belle-Rose, giving him the 
paper. 

But as Belle-Rose started to withdraw, he took his hand: 

“You are the son of old Guillaume, my friend; do not 


54 


THE HKOPS IN THE CUP. 


commit a folly ; you would afflict Monsieur d’Assonville 
aiid myself. You have an honest soul, have a strong 
heart, ’ ’ 

Belle-Rose pressed Monsieur de Naucrais’ hand and 
rushed out of the room. 


CHAPTER VII. 

THE DROPS IN THE CUP. 

A quarter of an hour after having quitted Monsieur de 
Naucrais, Belle-Rose, riding a post-horse, was flying at 
full speed over the route to St. Omer. At each relay he 
gave gold to the postilions. Belle-Rose fled like a bullet. 
When he perceived the steeple of St. Omer he had not said 
four words, but he had ridden down four horses. At the 
last relay he turned aside from the road and took his way 
through the flelds in the direction of Malzonvilliers. The 
sounds of a bell came to him. Though it was not a holi- 
day, no one was at work. This solitude and these confused 
tellings oppressed the sergeant’s heart. He hastened on 
and reached the chateau in a breathless state. If silence 
pervaded the country, all was tumult and confusion at 
Malzonvilliers. All sorts of lackeys went and came, and 
the peasants were drinking and singing. Belle-Rose glided 
into the midst of this crowd which paid no attention to 
him ; but, just as he was going to bound upon the terrace, 
the doors of the chateau opened wide, and a procession of 
richly costumed people appeared upon the threshold. The 
crowd uncovered themselves, the bells fang joyously, and 
Belle-Rose saw beyond the porch of a neighboring chapel, 
resplendent with a thousand lighted tapers. Before he had 
recovered from his emotion, the procession had passed 
under the porch vailed by the floating vapors of the in- 
cense. Belle-Rose followed it and concealed himself in a 
corner of the chapel. Eor some time he remained bowed 
like a young tree lashed by the wind ; all the strength left 
to him he made use of in prayer 'to God. When he again 
raised his head, his first look fell upon the altar. A man 
with silvery hair, and a woman wearing a transparent vail, 
were kneeling upon velvet carpets. No sooner than he saw 
this woman, Belle-Rose’s eyes were fixed immovably upon 
her. Drops of sweat beaded upon the soldier’s forehead ; 
his temples seemed bound in an iron vise, his ears tingled 


THE DROPS IN THE CUP. 


55 


like those of a drowning man. He could not ha ve cried out 
if he had made an effort to do so;' his throat was closed. 
The ceremony of the marriage was accomplished without 
his making any movement. There was no life in his body 
except in his eyes, and his eyes did not quit the altar. 
When they had received the nuptial benediction, the two 
s])Ouses arose, and the young woman turned around. It 
was indeed she, Suzanne de Malzonvilliers, now Marquise 
d’Albergotti. Belle-Rose did not even tremble. What need 
had he to see her in order to recognize her? Theiu’ocession 
soon took its way toward the porch; but this time the 
bride and groom marched at the head. The procession 
made the circuit of the chapel, the crowd parting before it; 
from the movement around him, Belle-Rose understood 
that Suzanne was advancing. He stood -upright. A pillar, 
against which he had leaned, prevented him from recoil- 
ing. The bride and groom approached slowly; the long 
vail of Suzanne swept the floor, and her virginal beauty 
was displayed under its transparence. The nave w^as 
narrow; a corner of his sweetheart’s dress brushed Belle- 
Rose; a sigh half parted his lii^s, and he leaned against 
the pillar. Suzanne raised her inclined forehead. Near 
her. and in the penumbra of the chapel, she caught a 
glimpse of a pale face in which blazed two eyes filled with 
the sinister flames of despair. Suzanne tottered. But 
before the cry wTiich came from her soul had expired upon 
her lips, the procession had pushed her forw’ard, and 
wdien she turned back, Belle-Rose had vanished like an 
apparition. A living rampart separated them. But while 
the crowd pressed with its thousand feet the sacred in- 
closure, Belle-Rose felt his heart and reason wandering. 
He did not think, he did not dream, he did not suffer; he 
was i^aralyzed. He remained immovable, bis back rest- 
ing against the pillar, his arms hanging listless beside 
him, his head inclined upon his breast, and no longer hear- 
ing anything but the dull throbbing of his heart. The 
crowxi’had long since left the chapel. The white image of 
Suzanne alone filled it for him. 

At this moment the beadle imssed, making his round. 
Seeing a man alone, standing against a pillar, he went to 
him and struck him on the shoulder. 

“Eh! friend, ’’ said he, “the wedding has been over for 
some time; let me close the doors, then.” 

Belle-Rose raised his head and looked at the beadle. The 
poor man was troubled by this look. Great tears fell froiii 
the soldier’s eyes and bathed his colorless cheeks. 


56 


THE DROPS IN THE CUP. 


“Diable!” said the other, “if you are sick, you should 
say so. ” 

Belle-Hose had just perceived the country through the 
open doors of the chapel ; at the same time he recollected 
everything, and, making no answer, he rushed oufc of the 
building. 

He crossed the terraces, constantly running, and leaping 
over hedges and ditches, he advanced more quickly than 
a stag toward the house of Guillaume Grinedal. 

The garden was deserted ; he crossed it and pushed open 
the door of the house. A man turned round, and Belle- 
Rose fell at his feet. 

“My father!” he exclaimed, and he fainted. 

The father knelt down near his son. He was alone, Clau- 
dine and Pierre having remained at the chateau. The sol- 
dier was lying still; the violence of his emotions and the 
fatigue had exhausted his strength. Guillaume took him 
in his arms and laid him upon a bench fastened to the 
wall. Belle-Rose’s heart beat, but his half-closed eyes 
stared vacantlju They had been together for more than an 
hoiu' — the son speechless and cold, the father praying to 
God — when the door, pusned violently open, gave passage 
to two women enveloped in mantles. When the mantles 
fell, Guillaume recognized Suzanne and Claudine. Suzanne 
reached the bench wuHi a bound, leaned over Belle-Rose, 
eyed him a moment, then turned to the old falconer. Her 
looks had a terrible eloquence. They were filled with all 
the terror, with all the remorse, with all the reproaches of 
the woman who loves. Guillaume understood this look. 

“He lives,” said he. 

“But he is going to die, ” exclaimed Suzanne. 

“God will spare me that trial,” said the father. 

“Oh! I was not deceived,” said she; “it was indeed he!^ 
When I saw him so pale that he had the appearance of a 
corpse rather than of a living being, all my blood grew 
chilled. Oh, Guillaume, what have you exacted? Clau- 
dine, what have you made me do?” 

It was no longer the same woman. All the reserve, all 
the calm, all the serenity of Suzanne had abandoned her; 
her disordered hair streamed over the bridal toilet; she 
W'^as whiter than her dress; her lips quivered; she wrung 
her hands. 

“But you see that he is dying!” she cried, falling upon 
her knees; “ho has not even recognized me!” 

Guillaume took pity on such a profound despair; he 
forgot his own grief to think only of Suzanne. 


THE DEOPS IN THE CUP. 


57 


“Arise, macEmie, ” lie said to lier. “Recollect the name 
yon bear, and no longer remain here, when no longer be- 
ing able to do anything for his happiness, you may destroy 
3mnrs. “ 

“ivly happiness! And what matters to me my hajipi- 
nessV” said she, with a passionate ardor. “He siilfers, he 
is unhappy, I shall remain here until he has heard me, un- 
til he has pardoned me. Oh ! through pity, my father, 
leave me near him. ” 

Guillaume had not the courage to drive her away, and 
both drew near Belle-Rose, whom Claudine was vainly 
calling. 

“Jacques!” said Suzanne, in a low tone. 

Jacques remained silent. 

“My God! can he be dead, since he no longer hears even 
me?” said she. 

Claudine turned to the door. 

“Night is approaching,” said she, “perhaps they are 
looking fpr you at the chateau.” 

“Let them come, then. Monsieur de Malzonvilliers and 
Monsieur d’Albergotti, ” she replied, in a somber tone. 
“My father has willed it.” 

“You destroy yourself and you will not save him!” said 
the father. 

“But what, then, do you wish me to do?” exclaimed Su- 
zanne, with clasped hands and tears in her eyes. 

“We must separate,” said a voice. 

Suzanne and Claudine trembled; it was the voice of 
Jacques, and Jacques himself was seated upon the bench, 
still too weak to rise, but already too strong to remain 
stretched out, 

“Jacques!” they mutually exclaimed. 

“I thought I was going to die,” said he. “I heard you, 
but could not speak. Now listen to me. You, Suzanne,” 
he added, “you whom I call thus for the last time, you 
must return to the chateau. ” 

Suzanne shook her head. 

“It must be so,” continued Jacques, “and I beg you to 
do so. 1 have indeed the right,” said he, with a sad smile, 
“to ask a faVor of you.” 

Suzanne bowed her-head. 

“Do you pardon mo, Jacques?” 

“I have nothing to pardon. You have obeyed your 
father and mine. I heard you just now, and I understood 
that your grief equaled mine ; though you are banish(;d 


SB 


THE DROPS IN THE CUP. 


from me forever, you are still dear and sacred to me. Now 
fai'ewell; you are the Marquise d’Alhergotti. ” 

“The name does not change the heart, ” said Suzanne. 
“If you had died on account of me, 1 should have killed 
myself. ’ 

Jacques seized her hand, but just as he was carrying it 
to his lips with a convulsive ardor, Guillaume Grinedal 
stopped him. 

“Madame d’Albergotti,” said he, “your husband is ex- 
pecting you.” 

The two lovers trembled from head to foot; their joined 
hands separated. The voice of Guillaume had awakened 
Suzanne as if from a dream. For an hour the lover had 
triumphed over the wife ; it was now the wife’s turn to 
triumph over the lover. Suzanne raised her forehead, over 
which passed a sudden blush. 

“Farewell!” said she to Jacques. “You do not lose me 
entirely, the fiiend remains to you.” 

Jacques did not reply, and Suzanne went away on Clau- 
dine’s arm. When they were alone, Jacques and Guillaume 
embraced each other. 

Jacques passed the night under the falconer’s roof, but 
at daybreak he left. Once more he received the paternal 
benediction upon the threshold of that door where, three 
years before, he had knelt down full of joy and hope, and 
which he now quitted full of bitterness and discourage- 
ment. Jacques did not take the route to Laon; like all 
wounded hearts he had need of affection; he thought of 
Monsieur d’Assonville and directed his course toward 
Arras, where the captain of light-horse was then garri- 
soned. A secret instinct told him that Monsieur d’Asson- 
ville was suffering like him, and that therefore he loved 
without hope. The sergeant found the young officer in a 
salon badly^ lighted by a slender ray filtered between 
thick curtains. Monsieur d’Assonville was walking in this 
large room, where the noise of his steps was stifled by a 
carpet. He was still the same handsome young man, whose 
intelligent head had an air of gentleness and pride which 
was charming. Only his look seemed sadder still, and the 
transparent pallor of his face was marbled by bluish tints 
under the eyelids. On seeing the soldier. Monsieur 
d’Assonville smiled. 

“Welcome,” he said to him. “Do you bring us this time 
sax)pers or cannoneers?” 

“No, captain, I come alone.” 

“Alone! And what do you come for?” 


THE DKOPS IN THE CUP. 


69 


Jacgnes did not reply. Monsieur d’Assonville, aston- 
ished, drew near him; a gust of wind \vhich parted the 
curtains permitted him to see better the face of his pro- 
tege, 

“My God! what is the matter with you?” he exclaimed. 

“Suzanne is married!” replied Jacques. 

Monsieur d’Assonville took his hand and pressed it. 

“Poor Belle-Rose! you loved her, then. It must be so. 
Now, you suffer and you are alone. For six years I have 
wept. ’ ’ 

- Belle-Rose in his turn pressed the hand of Monsieur 
d’Assonville. 

“You have a loyal and noble heart, and you ventured to 
place your life upon a woman’s word, ” continued the cap- 
tain. “I know how it is. When one takes a mistress at 
hazard and quits her as one loses a pistole at lansquenet, 
these things never happen. Only fools love, and we be- 
long to those fools. I will not say to you to shake off your 
suffering as one shakes off' the dust of the road, but you 
are a man and a soldier. Toughen yourself to the evil and 
wait; if you die from it, you must die standing.” 

“Yes, captain,” replied Belle-Rose, in a firm voice, and 
passing his hands through his long and curly hair, he 
threw back his head. 

Monsieur d’Assonville smiled. 

“You are a brave and courageous fellow. If you so de- 
sired, twenty women would avenge you on your unfaith- 
ful sweetheart.” 

Belle-Rose shook his head. 

“Suit yourself. But take care; you are too sad for them 
not to atten^pt to console you ; if you avoid them, they 
will seek you.” 

Monsieur d’Assonville again took up his walk over the 
room. Each time that he passed before Belle-Rose he 
looked at him, and at each turn he looked longer than be- 
fore. Finally he stopped before him. 

“Do you wish to render me a service, Belle-Rose?” he 
said to him. 

“I am yours body and soul.” 

“Will you do all I tell you?” 

“All.” 

“And you promise me to keep silent at the price of your 
life?” 

“I swear it.” 

“It is well. I am going to prepare your instructions; to- 
morrow you will leave for Paris,” 


60 


A HOUSE IN THE EUE CASSETTE. 


CHAPTER VIII. 

A HOUSE. IN THE RUE CASSETTE. 

Early the next day Monsieur d’Assonville ordered Belle- 
xiose into his apartment. Upon the table before which he 
was seated were to be seen some letters and divers scat- 
tered papers. The captain’s pallor, his weary eyes, indi- 
cated that he had passed the entire night in writing. 

“I have informed Monsieur de Naucrais that I need your 
services, ” said he to Belle-Rose. “Your responsibility as 
a soldier has ceased, and from day to day the prolonga- 
tion of your leave will arrive. Are you ready to start?” 

“At any time.” 

“Perhaps there will be some danger in executing the 
commission, and I must warn you of it.” 

“I only regre'Tthat this danger is not certain.” 

Monsieur d’Assonville raised his eyes to Belle-Rose, and 
giving him his hand, said: 

“Leave sadness to those who no longer hope. You are 
twenty, Belle-Rose, and twenty is the age of pleasure.” 

“And you thirty, captain; thirty is the age of passions.” 

“You think so?” said the captain, with a smile. “It 
seems to me that I no longer have a heart.” He was silent 
a moment, then he resumed: “God is supreme. Dismiss 
this and let us return to your journej^. Here are three let- 
ters, my friend. Each of them contains a part of my life. 
Retain well what I am going to say to you. On your ar- 
rival at Parris, you will take lodging in a st3;eet near the 
Luxembourg. Toward evening you will go to the Rue 
Cassette, at the corner of the Rue de Vangirard, taking 
care to carry with you the smallest of these three letters. 
You will strike at a low door giving upon a court planted 
with trees. At the third knock the door will be opened. 
You will display your letter and ask the person who an- 
swers your call to deliver it to Mademoiselle Camille. 
Bear this name well in mind, for it js not upon the letter. 
If you are told that she has gone, insist on its being deliv- 
ered to her brother Cyprien. The individual addressed 
will take the letter and you will withdraw, after having 
taken care to write plainly your name and address upon 
the envelope. ” 

“Well — Camille and Cyili’ien.” 

“If, after three days, you have received no reply, you 


A HOUSE IN THE KUE CASSETTE. 61 

will return to the Rue Cassette, and you will hand to the 
same person a second letter — this one.” 

“The one which is larger than the first and smaller than 
the third?” 

“Precisely. You will wait three days longer. At the end 
of these three days, if you have seen neither valet nor 
note, you will take the last letter and carry it as you did 
the other two. ” 

“And I will again ask for Mademoiselle Camille or Mon- 
sieur Cyprien, her brother?” 

“Yes, only this time you will add upon the envelope 
these words: ‘I leave in twenty-four hours.’ ” 

“And shall I really leave?” 

“Unless you prefer to stay in Paris.” 

“Then I shall leave.” 

“I do not think so. Certainly some one will come after 
the third letter, if not before.” 

“Mademoiselle Camille or Monsieur Cyprien?” 

“One or the other, or perhaps both,” said Monsieur 
d’Assonville, with a singular smile. “You will follow 
them and do everything they tell you.” 

“But how shall I recognize them?” 

“By these words which Mademoiselle Camille will pro- 
nounce on accosting you: ‘The Castilian is waiting.’ Per- 
haps you will be informed by a note where these words 
will be found. This note will indicate to you a rendezvous, 
and you will go to it. There is no danger, only— take a 
poniard.” 

“Ah!” 

“You will take care to always have the right arm free 
and ready to act. ” 

“Ah! ah!” 

“Oh, ’tis a simple precaution. When you shall have ar- 
rived at the place indicated and spoken to the person to 
whom I send you, you will repeat to me all that you have 
seen and heard at once and without a moment’s loss of 
time.” 

“Is that all?” 

“It is all. Leave now, and may God guide you and aid 
you.” 

Just as Belle-Rose was mounting his horse. Monsieur 
d’Assonville embraced him : 

“Whether I live or die,” he said to him, “I have your 
word ; I count upon your silence. ” 

Belle-Rose placed the three letters in his doublet, and 
took his departure. The agitation of his body calmed the 


62 


A HOUSE IN THE EUE CASSETTE. 


agitation of his mind; he made the journey to Paris at a 
gallop in order to repose himself. His first care, on arriv- 
ing at Paris, was to stop at a small furnished lodging on 
the ground floor of a house in the Kue du Pot-de-Fer St. 
Sulpice. The apartment, which was composed of a room 
and a large closet, was genteel and had a view opening 
upon some gardens. Belle-Rose paid two weeks in ad- 
vance, Monsieur d’Assonville having made it possible for 
him to cut a figure at Paris; then, drawing aside the pro- 
prietor, who was at the same time the concierge, he gave 
him a gold louis and recommended him to take care whom 
he admitted to see him. These manners won the inn- 
keeper’s heart; he doffed his cap. 

“My gentleman,” said he, “I have, though old, eyes to 
see, ears to hear, and a tongue to speak. You will he 
served as you desire.” 

“’Tis well. Only learn that I am not a gentleman.” 

“So much the worse; men formed like you deserve to 
bo marquises by birth.” 

“You will call me Belle-Rose.” 

“I will call you as you wish; hut you will not prevent 
me from saying that, if you are not really what I sup- 
posed, fate has acted like an ill-bred person.” 

Belle-Rose threw a cloak around his shoulders, slipped the 
smallest of the three letters into his pocket, and went 
out. 

“All the same,” said the landlord, following him with 
his eye as he went along the walls of the Rue du Pot-de- 
Fer St. Sulpice, “he has wished to disguise himself — and 
that is his affair ; hut you cannot convince me but what he 
is a great lord. What a figure!” 

This exclamation answered his thought. It said; “What 
a louis!” 

Things happened as Monsieur d’Assonville had an- 
nounced to Belle-Rose. The low door opened only at the 
third knock; a woman, muffled in a head-dress which 
descended in front even to her eyes, and behind even to 
her neck, appeared upon the threshold. She cast upon 
Belle-Rose a keen glance which embraced him from head 
to foot, then lowered her eyes, crossed her arms, and 
waited. The house was full of cracks, shaky, and covered 
with moss. This hopse must already have been old in the 
time of the League; it had a discreet appearance, a de- 
voted air, a mournful aspect. No stream of smoke issued 
from the chimneys, and the windows were closed. In the 
court grew enormous trees, and under their shade were 


A HOUSE IN THE RUE CASSETTE. 


63 


scattered marble vases of a precious workmanship, but 
soiled by lichen and void of flowers. 

“This house is not to rent,’’ said the woman. 

“Therefore I did not come for that,” replied Bolle-Roso, 
who blushed slightly ; “I have a letter here which I am 
charged to deliver to Mademoiselle Camille. ’ ’ 

The woman threw another glance at Belle-Rose. 

“She has gone,” she then said, with eyes lowered. 

“Will you hand this letter to her brother, then?” 

Another glance glided between the eyelashes of this dis- 
creet person, and was promptly extinguished. 

“What brother?” 

“Monsieur Cyprien.” 

The woman extended her hand, took the letter, salutect; 
and shut the door in Belle-Rose’s face. 

The third day, Belle-Rose was halted by the landlord 
just as he was about to unlock his room. 

“There is a letter here for you,” he said to him. 

“Ah ! ah !” said the sergeant, thinking that the reply 
had not been delayed as long as the captain thought it 
would. 

“Where is this letter?” 

“Here it is.” 

“Eh! eh!” said Belle-Rose, reading the address, “it ap- 
pears that they know my name, title, and rank. It is in- 
deed this: ‘Belle-Rose, Sergeant of Sappers in the Regi- 
ment of La Ferte.’ ” 

The host smiled shrewdly. 

“Yes; they suspected — like myself,” said he. 

The letter was inclosed in an envelope sealed with red 
wax. Belle-Rose broke the seal and quickly threw his eyes 
over the joaper. This is what it contained : 

“ Sergeant Belle-Rose has violated discipline by quitting his com- 
pany without permission. In order to recall it to him, said sergeant 
will be placed under arrest eight days on his return to the corps ; but 
in order to excuse his absence he will find inclosed the commission of 
recruiting sergeant and the instructions which are incident to this new 
grade. Sergeant Belle-Rose is authorized to remain a month at Paris 
or elsewhere, if need be. Le Vicomte Georges de Naucbais.” 

“This is again kindness disguised,” murmured Belle- 
Rose ; and on the following day he entered on his func- 
tions. 

Each evening Belle-Rose asked him if any one had 
come. 

“No one,” replied the good man, and for fear that some 


A HOUSE IN THE HUE CASSETTE. 


one might come in his absence. Monsieur Meriset remained 
seated in a small salon near the door, from morning to 
evening. 

The third day, Monsieur Meriset ran to Belle-Rose as 
soon as he saw him. For an hour the inhabitants of the 
Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice had seen Monsieur Meri- 
set promenading before his door and drawing out his 
watch every minute. The honest landlord accosted Belle- 
Rose, cap in hand, with an air at the same time myster- 
ious and delighted. 

“Well, Monsieur Belle-Rose?” said he. 

“Well, Monsieur Meriset.” 

“Some one has come. ” 

“Ah! ah! a lady or a gentleman?” 

“A young lord richly dressed, with a mustache turned 
up at the corners, a pointed nose, and a distinguished ap- 
pearance.” 

“He has inquired after me?” 

“Certes, yes, without saluting, as gentlemen do. ‘My 
good fellow,’ he has said to me, ‘is Belle-Rose here?’ ‘No, 
monseigneur, ’ I have replied, standing with hat in hand. 
By his easy air I understood at once that I was dealing 
with a gentleman of the court. ‘Au diable!’ he continued. 
‘You will tell him that I wish to see him. I shall expect 
him to-morrow.’ ” 

“Did he tell you his name?” 

“No.” 

“His address?” 

“No.”'’ 

“Where the devil. Monsieur Meriset, ^hall I find him?” 

“Oh, he has said nothing to me, he has written every- 
thing to you.” 

“Well and good. Monsieur Meriset, this is what you 
should have stated in the beginning.” 

Belle-Rose found upon a table a slip of paper, and upon 
this slip of paper these words : 

“Gaspard de Villebrais.” 

“My lieutenant!” he exclaimed, “what can he want 
with me?” 

The simplest way, for knowing, was to go to the lieuten- 
ant’s lodging; this is what Belle-Rose did the next day. 
Monsieur de Villebrais informed him that he was at Paris 
on his own business, and at the same time on that of the 
company. 

“I will attend to mine, and I depend on you to look 
after the other,” he added. “If you need me, you will find 


A HOUSE IN THE RUE CASSETTE. 


65 


me every clay, from one to two o’clock, at the tennis court, 
near the Luxembourg, and from three to four at the Place 
Royale. It is there that the best society goes. Adieu, I 
am expected elsewhere.” 

“From one to two at the Luxembourg, and from three 
to four at the Place Royale. ’Tis well ; I shall recollect it 
to the extent of- not going there,” said Belle-Rose to him- 
self as he w^ent away. 

This lieutenant w’as a man of a haughty and irascible dis- 
position wdiom all his subordinates detested. 

The following day, the sergeant returned to the Rue 
Cassette and struck at the low door. The same lady 
opened and this time took the letter at the first w’ord. 

“Well!” said Belle-Rose to himself. “At our first inter- 
view she spoke five or six words ; to-day she has not 
spoken more than two ; at the next interview she will not 
say anything at all. This singularly abridges the negotia- 
tions.” 

Belle-Rose kept Monsieur d’AsSonville constantly ad- 
vised of his actions, and the rest of his time he beat about 
the city, recruiting heroes at six sous per day for His Most 
Christian Majesty’s artillery. Between the letters and the 
promenades Belle-Rose thought constantly of Suzanne. 
He could not accustom himself to call her Madame d’Al- 
bergotti. But if his love was as profound as ever, the 
recollection of it was less bitter. The sentiment of duty, 
all powerful in his soul, made him excuse the conduct of 
Mademoiselle de Malzonvilliers, who had given way only 
to the paternal authority. When he passed through the 
quarter of the Palais-Royal, through the Rue St. Honore, 
through the public gardens, his handsome appearance and 
his youth attracted the looks of all the prepossessing 
grisettes and of a great many great ladies, also. But looks 
and smiles glided over a heart tenanted by regret. Three 
days after the sending of the second letter, Belle-Rose per- 
ceived, as he entered the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice, 
the worthy Monsieur Meriset walking before his door with 
a hurried step. He drew off his cap, placed it on again, 
stopped, looked behind him and bet ore him. His feet 
scarcely touched the soil, and his lips, tightly contracted, 
seemed to have some trouble to contain a stream of words 
ready to escape. 

“Eh! eh!” said he, quite low, to Belle-Rose, and with 
the most mysterious air in the world, “there is something 
new. ’ ’ 

“A letter?” 


66 


A HOUSE IN THE RUE CASSETTE. 


“Better than that.” 

“A visit.” 

“Exactly. A visit such as the greatest gentleman of our 
glorious king would he pleased to receive.” 

“It is a woman, then?” 

“And one of the prettiest — brown eyes, soft and bril- 
liant, hair like silken threads, a slender little nose, lips to 
shame the freshest roses, and what teeth ! Ah ! my gentle- 
man, how willingly one would change one’s self into a 
cherry to be bitten by those teeth!” 

“Monsieur Meriset, poetry has made you forget my 
rank; no gentility, if you please.” 

“He persists in it,” thought the honest landlord. And 
he continued, aloud: “For fifty-two years I have been liv- 
ing in the Hue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice, and never before 
did I see a similar face. ” 

“What is she — a soubrette?” 

“A soubrette! ah, fi! with that figure of a great lady — 
she is a marquise. ” 

“Did she tell you so?” 

“I guessed it.” 

Belle-Rose smiled, having a personal experience of his 
host’s perspicacity. 

“Agreed that she is a marquise, ” said he. “At least she 
has told you something?” 

“Certainly. She told me that she would return.” 

“Ah!” 

“Then she has gone away again in the chaise which 
brought her.” 

“Without saying anything?” 

“Faith no; but I understood from her air that she was 
vexed because she did not get to see you.” 

Belle-Rose did not for a moment doubt but what the 
marquise of his host was an emissary from the Rue Cas- 
sette. Consequently the next day he remained at home all 
day and waited. No one appeared. It was the same the 
following day. Belle-Rose returned to his recruits. 

“Parbleu !” said he, “if anyone wishes to see me let 
them write to me. There are pens for everybody.” 

As he was returning two days after, toward evening, he 
saw at the end of the street a carriage standing still; a 
woman was standing before the portiere, and by the wo- 
man’s side a man was bending over, his cap in hand. This 
man was Monsieur Meriset. The intelligent landlord per- 
ceived Belle-Rose with the corner of his eye and made him 
an imperceptible sign to induce him to make haste. Belle- 


A HOUSE IN THE KUE CASSETTE. 


67 


Rose did hasten, but the woman jumped quickly into the 
carriage, the coachman whipped his horses, and the equip- 
age disappeared down the Rue Vangirard. Monsieur Mer- 
iset stamped, which with him denoted a violent annoy- 
ance. 

“Five minutes sooner, and you held her!” he exclaimed. 

“It was she, then?” 

“No.” 

“Who, then?” 

“Another.” 

“Young, old, ugly, or pretty?” 

“Perhaps one, perhaps the other. I do not know.” 

“Nevertheless you saw her.” 

“Not at all. She had a large black vail over her face.” 

“What! you have seen nothing?” 

“Nothing, save the foot.” 

“Ah!” 

“The foot of a duchess!” 

“Parbleu! But tell me Monsieur Meriset, had this duch- 
ess, like the marquise, a vexed air because she did not meet 
me?” 

“On the contrary. That is at least what I said to myself 
on seeing her jump into the carriage.” 

“That is just. She did not come, then, to speak to me?” 

“Not altogether. She came to inquire.” 

“And what did you answer. Monsieur Meriset?” 

“Ah! ah! I am not a fool, though I look like one. I let 
her talk and said nothing. ” 

“Quite sure?” 

“As true as my house is an honest house. It was not be- 
cause she did not wish to tempt me, and this purse given 
me proves well enough with what intentions she had 
come.” 

“Eh! what! you have accepted it?” 

“I accepted it and was silent. A house has always need 
of repairs ; but the repairs do not oblige me to speak. 
Vainly she tried to find out who you were, what you did, 
whence you came — I have been as mute as this cap. You 
charmed me at the first sight, and there is nothing I 
would not do for you. Nevertheless, I must acknowledge 
that my discretion has perhaps less merit at bottom than 
in appearance. I have said nothing, ’tis true, but I also 
knew nothing. ” 

“I will not cavil about the fact, the intention suffices.” 

“Oh! the intention was excellent and will always be so.” 

Belle-Rose believed it his duty to reward this good in- 


68 


A FEIEND AND AN ENEMY. 


tention in order to maintain it in the sentiment of hon- 
esty, and as the person had not said she would return, he 
did not give himself the trouble to wait for her next day. 
For once, Belle-Rose knew not what to think of these two 
visits ; it was not probable that they both came from the 
Rue Cassette, and as, on the other hand, he did not know 
any woman in Paris, he could only make vain supposi- 
tions. After having tortured his mind in a thousand wavs, 
he took the very wise part of leaving to the future the 
task of explaining this adventure. The day for his third 
trip to the house in the Rue Cassette had come. The result 
was such as he had foreseen. The lady took the letter this 
time without observation. The next day Belle Rose in- 
stalled himself at home and waited. The hours passed ; no 
one appeared. Evening came. At all hazards, Belle-Rose 
packed his clothing so as to be ready to leave at daybreak 
and went out to dine at a restaurant in the Rue du Bac, 
where he was accustomed to take his meals. As he left it, 
a crowd of artisans and shopkeepers stopped him at the 
corner of the Rue de Sevres ; through lack of nothing to do 
he mingled with the crowd who were making a great fuss 
about a sedan bearer who was quarreling with a bourgeois. 
All at once a hand seized his arm and a woman’s voice 
pronounced distinctly these words in his ear: “The Cas- 
tilian is waiting.” Belle-Rose- trembled, but when he 
turned round, none but workmen were near him. He only 
felt a paper which the hand of the unknown had slipped 
into his. He made haste to leave the group and directed 
his course toward the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice in 
order to read the note. Just as he pushed open the door, 
a woman came out. She stopped brusquely. A stream of 
light fell upon the face of Belle-Rose. 

“My brother!” exclaimed the woman. 

“Claudine!” replied Belle-Rose, and he received his sis- 
ter in his arms. 


CHAPTER IX. 

A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY. 

Belle-Rose drew Claudine into his apartment and shut 
the door in the face of Monsieur Meriset, who was bowing 
and scraping, torch in hand. 

“It is the marquise,” murmured the honest landlord, re- 
turning to his lodge, “and he calls her his sister.” 


A FKIEND AND AN ENEMY. 


69 


After the first caresses, Belle-Rose made Claudine sit 
down upon a sofa. He exi^erienced a strong desire to ad- 
dress her a question, the only one dear to his heart, a 
question summed up by a name. An incredible emotion 
prevented him from doing so. He took a roundabout way 
to arrive at his object. 

“Have you not been here before?” he said to Claudine. 

“I was here some days ago. But since then it has been 
impossible for me to return.” 

“Why did you not leave your address?” 

Claudine appeared embarrassed for a moment. 

“I could not,” she presently said. 

“And why?” 

“Because you would have come to see me.” 

Belle-Rose understood. He lowered his eyes, and Clau- 
dine took his hand. 

“You did not come to Paris alone, then?” said he. 

Claudine shook her head. 

“Suzanne is in Paris!” said Belle-Rose. “I am here, and 
were it not for you I should have been ignorant of her 
presence.” 

“Oh, do not blame her! When she left Malzonvilliers to 
follow her husband, who was called to Paris on important 
business, she begged me to accompany her. I was unable 
to refuse her. She is so unhappy !” 

“Unhappy!” exclaimed Belle-Rose. 

“God and I alone know what she suffers. Monsieur 
d’Albergotti does not know. When he is present, she 
smiles; when he is gone, she weeps.” 

Belle-Rose concealed his head between his hands. 

“On reaching Paris some days ago she fell sick — oh, she 
is out of danger,” said Claudine, on seeing her brother’s 
emotion ; “it is she who sent me here to you ” 

“Oh! I shall go to see her, to thank her ” 

“No, do not come. Your presence would kill her.” 

“She has not forgotten me, then?” exclaimed Belle- 
Rose, with that profound accent given by the egotism of 
love. 

“Forgotten? If you were, Jacques, would she still be so 
sad and disconsolate? Your name is not upon her lips, but 
it is in her heart. ” 

Both were silent. A bitter joy filled the soul of Belle- 
Rose; Claudine almost repented having spoken. What 
happiness could come from this revived love? Drawing 
her handkerchief from her pocket, she dried her humid 


70 


A FEIEND AND AN ENEMY. 


eyes, pushed back the hair which vailed her child-like 
forehead, and smiled. 

“Brother,” said she, “I came to embrace you and not to 
weep. Let us dismiss this conversation which would red- 
den my eyes — something which I am not in a humor to 
permit — and take my arm to conduct me to my lodgings. 
I wish to talk of your affairs as we go along. ” 

It is quite a distance from the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. 
Sulpice to the Rue de I’Oreille, where the Hotel d’Alber- 
gotti was situated. As they walked along the Rue du Bac 
and the quays, we would not vouch for the fact that Belle- 
Rose did not pronounce twice or thrice the name of Su- 
zanne ; but Claudine turned aside the conversation from 
this dangerous ground and brought it back to things more 
in conformity with her humor. 

“When shall I see you again?” Belle-Rose asked his sis- 
ter, on leaving her in front of the hotel. 

“Day after to-morrow, if you wish. At eleven o’clock, 
I shall be at the Porte St. Honore.” 

“Well, I shall be there at ten.” 

Belle-Rose had, thanks to his sister, forgotten the note 
mysteriously slipped into his hand. His first care, imme- 
diately on his return to the worthy Monsieur Meriset’s, 
was to learn the contents of it. He found only these 
words : 

“Next Saturday, Belle-Rose will meet, an hour after sunset, at the 
Porte-Gaillon, a person who will saj" to him the words agreed upon; 
let him follow this person, and he will arrive .where Monsieur 
d’Assonville sends him.” 

He recollected then that this was the day on which he 
was to wait for his sister at the Porte St. Honore. For a 
moment he thought of writing to her to take back his 
promise ; but, like a well-informed man, he understood 
that matters could be arranged. To his sister he would 
give the day; to the affairs of Monsieur d’Assonville the 
evening. Belle-Rose was punctual at the rendezvous; his 
sister and he mounted a fiacre and took their way to 
Neuilly. After having vainly sought a lodging at the 
Porcherons, which a company of musketeers had invaded, 
Belle-Rose, just as the fiacre was passing over the cause- 
way, heard a voice which called him by name. He leaned 
toward the portiere, and saw, at the window of a cabaret, 
a gentleman saluting him who held a glass of champagne 
in his hand. 

“Good luck to you, Belle-Rose!” said he. 


A FKIEND AND AN ENEMY. 


71 


“Who is that gentleman?” Claudine asked her brother, 
who had bowed his head. 

“Monsieur de Villebrais, my lieutenant.” 

After having driven about some time in the environs, 
Belle-Rose and his sister made the fiacre deviate from the 
main road. There was at the end of a meadow a house, be- 
fore which some beautiful trees extended their shade; this 
house had the appearance of a farm-house. Hoping that 
in this out-of-the-way place dinner could be served to 
them, Belle-Rose ran to it, leaving his sister some distance 
away. 

As he was returning, beating the bushes with a cane 
which he held in his hand, he heard frightened cries, in 
which his own name was mixed. He hurried on and saw 
Claudine struggling in the hands of a cavalier. In a 
bound, Belle-Rose had reached them. 

“Eh! parbleu! come on,” exclaimed the cavalier. “You 
will aid me to make this pretty child understand that I 
am not a peasant. ” . 

The cavalier had not finished his phrase, when Belle- 
Rose, snatching Claudine from his arms, placed himself 
between them. 

“Monsieur de Villebrais,” said he, “this child is my sis- 
ter.” 

“Your sister? Word of honor, ’tis charming. You are 
very spiritual, Belle-Rose.” 

“My lieutenant!” 

“Your sister? Does one ride about with one’s sister? I 
have a sister, too, but she is at the convent, my dear sir.” 

“Monsieur de Villebrais, I have told you the truth. Clau- 
dine ” 

“Ah ! her name is Claudine, your cousin or your mis- 
tress ; both, perhaps. It is a pretty name, altogether in 
the pastoral taste. Say, then, my charmer, if you wish 
my heart, I offer it to you ; it is vacant for twenty-four 
hours.” 

Belle-Rose barred the way to Monsieur de Villebrais; 
but it was out of the question to make a man hear reason 
who had dined altogether too well. Turning, then, to the 
coachman, who was looking on philosophically, he cried to 
him to turn his team in the direction of Paris. The chev- 
alier immediately threw a jmrse at the coachman’s feet. 

“Coant that money, rascal,” he said to him, “and when 
you have finished, whistle your most beautiful airs.’' 

The coachman picked up the purse, sat down upon a 
block of stone, and began to count. He had not reached 


72 


A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY. 


the third crown when he whistled with all his strength. 
Clandine looked wildly turn by turn at the coachman, her 
brother, and the chevalier. 

“That is an intelligent coachman,” said Monsieur de 
Villebrais. “Be not less amiable than he, my friend; your 
mistress is pretty and pleases me ; for three or four hours 
you have been wandering around together. Each in his 
turn, get you away from here.” 

Belle-Rose looked at Monsieur de Villebrais. The chev- 
alier was strongly animated, but his legs were still steady, 
his voice clear, his gestures easy; the sergeant was not 
dealing then with a drunken man, but with a headstrong 
officer.. The quarrel then became more grave. 

“Come, my dear sir, have you understood?” said the 
chevalier. “Turn about, run to the Porcherons, ask for 
the cabaret of the Pomme de Pin, and dine freely at my 
expense.” 

“My lieutenant, I shall not go.” 

“You wish to remain.” 

“Yes.” 

“Ah! scoundrel, do you forget who I am?” 

“On the contrary, I wish to recollect it.” 

“Ah ! you jest. I will cut off your ears. ” 

“I do not believe it.” 

Monsieur de Villebrais raised his arm, and Belle-Rose 
seized it. 

“What! you dare touch me, rascal? I am going to give 
you a sword thrust in the stomach,” exclaimed Monsieur 
de Villebrais, who, losing all control of himself, made an 
effort to free his hand and take his sword ; but Belle-Rose 
pushed him back so quickly that he tottered over. 

Before he could arise, the sergeant had already drawn 
his sword. 

The coachman had stopped counting, but he was still 
whistling. 

“Monsieur de Villebrais, I swear to you that you will 
only reach my sister after having passed over my dead 
body!” exclaimed Belle-Rose. 

“I will not fight with you, but will get you hung,” re- 
plied the lieutenant. “Eh! coachman,” he added, “there 
are ten louis for you if you aid this adorable girl to mount 
in the fiacre, and ten more if you take her to the Pomme 
de Pin, where I will soon rejoin her.” 

Claudine wished to fly, but she tottered and fell upon 
her knees. 

“Done,” said the coachman. 


A FEIEND AND AN ENEMY. 73 

“Not yet!” exclaimed some one near by, and at the 
same moment an unknown man made his appearance. 

He was a handsome young fellow, with a firm and can- 
did expression of countenance. His costume, void of rib- 
bons and embroidery, gave him the appearance of a stu- 
dent, but he had the bearing and the sword of a gentle- 
man. 

“What did you say?” interposed Monsieur de Villebrais, 
“and in what are you mixing?” 

“I said what I wfished, and I mix in the affairs of others 
•when it pleases me, ” the unknown gravely replied. 

Upon a gesture from the lieutenant, the coachman, who 
was hesitating since the unexpected intervention of the 
cavalier, advanced toward Claudine. He had not made two 
steps when the hand of the unknown was placed upon his 
shoulder. 

“Listen,” he said to him. “This gentleman has prom- 
ised you ten louis to carry mademoiselle to the Porcherons. 
I promise you a hundred stripes across your back if you 
do not take her to yonder farm-house ; but I will join my 
invitation to that of monsieur to ask you to aid her to 
mount the fiacre. Do you understand?” 

“Quite well, ” said the coachman, who felt, from the 
manner in 'which the cavalier’s hand was placed upon his 
shoulder, that there was no objection to make to a man so 
full of eloquence and vigor. A new conviction had just 
penetrated his mind, and like a zealous neophyte he ran 
to open the portiere, wishing, by his zeal, to demonstrate 
the warmth of his conversion. 

“Enter, mademoiselle, ” said the unknown, presenting 
his hand to Claudine; “I answer to you for the good senti- 
ments of this honest coachman. Am I right, friend?” 

“You do me too much honor,” replied the coachman, 
who rubbed his shoulder as he closed the portiere. 

The intervention of the stranger had been so rapid, ac- 
tion had so promptly followed words, that Monsieur 
de Villebrais and Belle-Rose had remained mute specta- 
tors of this scene. But when Claudine sat down in the 
fiacre. Monsieur de Villebrais felt all his anger blaze up 
again. He rushed upon Belle-Rose, sword in hand, and 
made such a furious thrust that it would have pierced him 
through and through, if Belle-Rose, at the noise of his 
steins, had not thrown himself to one side. The blade 
ripped the sergeant’s clothes and glided along his shoul- 
der; but thanks to the quickness of his movement, the 
flesh was untouched. 


74 


A FEIEND AND AN ENEMY. 


“You practice assassination also, monsieur?” said the 
stranger, while the coachman urged on his horses in the 
direction of the farm-house with an unparalleled ardor. 

Monsieur de Villebrais grew pale at this insult. 

“On guard, monsieur!” he exclaimed, in a voice choking 
with fury, and he rushed upon the unknown. 

“You forget me, I believe,” said Belle-Rose, and in a 
hound he was between the lieutenant and the stranger. 

“If your adversary would give way to me,” said the lat- 
ter, without even touching the guard of his sword, “I 
should willingly consent to do you the honor to measure 
swords with you, monsieur ; hut I will call your attention 
to the fact that you owe him the preference.” 

“Fight with a clown, never!” 

“Nevertheless you will have it to do.” 

“And who will force me to do so?” said Monsieur de Vil- 
lebrais, disdainfully. 

“I, who am ready to strike you upon the cheek with the 
flat of my sword, if you hesitate.” 

Monsieur de Villebrais bit his lips till the blood came. 

“Listen, then, monsieur,” continued the stranger, in 
the same tone and without appearing more moved than if 
it were a question of a supper. “When one passes from 
rape to murder with such a surprising facility, some un- 
pleasantness must be expected. The trade is not altogether 
a profitable one.” 

The shame of the action which he had committed, and 
the rage inspired in Monsieur de Villebrais by these words, 
triumphed over the pride of blood. 

“So be it,” he replied. ‘Twill fight with this clown, 
and it shall be your turn afterward. ” 

“Willingly, if necessary.” 

Monsieur de Villebrais was already trying the ground 
with his foot, when the stranger resumed: 

“Since you yield to my observations with such a lauda- 
ble complaisance, permit me, monsieur, to address you a 
new one. This is not a suitable place to fight. We run the 
risk of being disturbed, which is always disagreeable. I 
see down yonder a little clump of trees which would do 
marvelously well. Does it please you to go there?” 

“Come,” replied Monsieur de Villebrais. 

The three young men entered the grove, and the two 
adversaries crossed blades immediately. Monsieur de Vil- 
lebrais fought like a man who wishes to kill and neglected 
none of the resources of fencing. But he was dealing with 
a man as determined as he and more skillful. At the third 


A FRIEND AND AN ENEMY. 75 

pass Monsieur de Villebrais was disarmed. Belle-Rose 
broke guard. 

“Tell me, monsieur, that you regret all this, and I will 
think no more about it,” he exclaimed. 

Monsieur de Villebrais had already picked up his sword; 
without making any answer, he again fell on guard. Belle- 
Rose had recovered enough sang-froid to recollect that the 
man whom he was facing was an officer. He would have 
preferred, then, to confine himself to parrying, but Mon- 
sieur de Villebrais pushed him so roughly that he was 
forced to give thrust for thrust. The clashing of steel ani- 
mated him, and a thrust which scratched him succeeded 
in making him lose all circumspection. Two minutes 
after his sword penetrated the breast of Monsieur de Vil- 
lebrais. Monsieur de Villebrais wished to return the 
thrust, but the blade escaped from his hand, a stream of 
blood mounted to his lips, and he fell upon his knees. The 
stranger raised him and leaned him against a tree. 

“It may be that he will not get over it, monsieur,” said 
he to Belle-Rose ; “begin by leaving; we will arrange the 
affair after. ’ ’ 

“This man is my lieutenant,” replied Belle-Rose, his 
reddened sword in hand. 

“Ah, diable!” said the unknown; “it means that you 
are in danger of being shot. Leave all the more quickly, 
then.” 

“And my sister?” 

“I answer for her.” 

“You swear it.” 

“Here is my hand.” 

The hands of the two young men met in a fraternal 
clasp. 

“Leave,” said the stranger, “and count upon me.” 

“You have aided my sister, monsieur. Your name, I 
pray you, in order that I may know to whom my gratitude 
is due. ” 

“My name is Cornelius O’Brien, and I am from the 
county of Armagh, Ireland.” 

“I am from St. Omer, in Artois, and my name is Jacques 
Grinedal, otherwise called Belle-Rose, sergeant of sappers 
in the regiment of La Ferte.” 

“Well, Belle-Rose, you have a friend. Honest men know 
each other at a glance.” 

Belle-Rose once more pressed the hand of the Irishman 
and went away The shades of evening were beginning to 
extend themselves over the country when he left the 


76 


A DAUGHTER OF EVE. 


grove. The recollection of the rendezvous which awaited 
him at the Porte Gaillon suddenly returned to his mind. 
His personal safety required that he should leave in all 
haste before the rumor of his duel had spread. But Mon- 
sieur d’Assonville had his word. 

Belle-Rose went straight to the Porte Gaillon. He had 
scarcely been there five minutes, when he saw arrive a 
small young man enveloped in a Spanish cloak. A gray 
felt hat, ornamented with a heron feather,, shaded his 
forehead ; the lower part of his face was concealed by a 
fold of the cloak. On seeing Belle-Rose, the young page 
walked rapidly toward him, and said, in low tones : 

“The Castilian is waiting.” 

“I am your man,” replied Belle-Rose. 

The page threaded a somber alley, walked for some min- 
utes, and then blew a small whistle attached to his neck 
by a silver chain. At this signal, a carriage arrived at the 
carrefour where the page had stopped ; he jumped in and 
made a sign to Belle-Rose to mount after him. The por- 
tiere was closed upon them, and the carriage moved off. 


CHAPTER X. 

A DAUGHTER OF EVE. 

Scarcely had Belle-Rose seated himself in the carriage, 
when his guide lowered the silk curtains and threw him- 
self in ar corner. The carriage rolled on for an hour or 
two. It appeared to Belle-Rose that it was leaving Paris 
and plunging into the countr3^, but it was impossible for 
him to recognize over what roads it was passing, or what 
direction it was following. His companion remained im- 
movable and silent in his corner. All at once the carriage 
stopped, a lackey opened the* portiere, and the page, leap- 
ing to the ground, invited Belle-Rose to descend. They 
found themselves in a solitary place surrounded by great 
trees. The night was dark, but in the distance there was 
seen shining, between the foliage, a light as immovable as 
a star. The page entered a path, and Belle-Rose followed 
him. The light disappeared and reappeared turn by turn ; 
the wind sighed and filled with melancholy noises the 
somber mass of forest. In proportion as the travelers ad- 
vanced, the path contracted and was embarrassed by 
branches touching the soil. The brilliancy of the light 


A DAtlGHTER OF EVE. 


77 


kept on increasing; each step drew them nearer to it. 
Soon, between the trunks of elms and birches, Belle-Rose 
distinguished the wavering outlines of a house, hut at the 
same moment he saw, as in a dream, two black shadows 
pass and disappear behind some holly bushes. A little far- 
ther on the two shadows drew near the path. Dry twigs 
snapped under the pressure of invisible feet. Belle-Rose 
looked at his guide. He seemed to have seen and heard 
nothing. ’ The presence of this mysterious escort suddenly 
recalled to Belle-Rose the last "words of Monsieur d’Asson- 
ville; he thrust his hand under his cloak; when he had as- 
sured himself that his poniard "was still in its place, he 
seized the guide’s arm. 

“What do you "want with me?” the latter asked. 

“Nothing.” 

“Why, then, do you take me by the arm?” 

“It is an idea of mine.” 

“And if it did not please me to suffer it?” 

“I should be grieved, but you would have to submit to 
it.” 

“Do you know. Monsieur Belle-Rose, that if I called, we 
are not so far from the carriage that I could not be heard.” 

“I even believe that you would not have to call very 
loud in order to be heard.” 

The guide’s hand trembled in that of the sergeant. 

“But I warn you that at the least cry and the least effort 
to release yourself, I shall plant this poniard in your 
breast,” continued Belle-Rose. 

The guide saw the pale lightning of the steel shine at 
two inches from his face. He shivered. 

“Supposing I do not wish to advance,” he rejoined. 

“Then we should turn back; but as this new resolution 
would prove to me that I ought to remain in your com- 
pany I would ask you to turn back with me.” 

“You are mad ! Do you fear then to be assassinated?” 

“Not at all. But my maxim is always to do things in 
company with some one. You live more gayly thus; you 
ought to die less sadly, too.” 

The guide fixed his brilliant gaze upon Belle-Rose’s face, 
on which was painted that firm and calm resolution par- 
ticularly characteristic of him. 

“Go ahead!” said the guide; and they continued to ad- 
vance toward the light. 

This light shone at a window — the only one open — in a 
species of hut lo^t in the depth of the woods. The guide 
knocked at a door which opened at once. Belle-Rose and 


78 


A .DAUGHTER OF EVE. 


he penetrated a corridor at tlie end of which their feet en- 
countered a stair-way. The door closed, the light disap- 
peared, and they mounted the steps. At the top of this 
stair- way, the guide lifted a curtain, and both found them- 
selves at the entrance of a room wonderfully decorated. 
The silken folds of rich hangings covered the walls ; a car- 
pet deadened the sound of footsteps; the furniture was in- 
laid with copper and mother-of-pearl ; upon a brocatel sofa, 
crowned by a canopy, a woman clothed in a velvet dress 
red as scarlet was half reclining ; her naked arms were 
lost in floods of lace, and her hand, whiter than a jas- 
mine flower, softly waved a fan with green feathers. A 
mask concealed her face. No look could penetrate either 
form or contour, and yet whosoever had seen this woman 
thus reclining would have divined that she was radiantly 
beautiful. At some steps from the sofa were two fauteuils ; 
Belle-Rose and his guide sat down in them, on a sign from 
tlie lady with the black mask. A lamp shaded by an ala- 
baster globe diffused its white light over the hangings of 
purple silk ; its pale rays were broken at the corners of 
the polished furniture, upon the carvings of the candelabra, 
with their thousand crystal facets, and the arrangement of 
light augmented the magic appearance of this place which 
was embalmed by the perfumes emanating from invisible 
scent- boxes. 

“You call yourself Belle-Rose?” said the lady to the 
falconer’s son. 

“Yes, madame.” 

“And you come on the part of Monsieur d’Assonville?” 

“He must have informed you of the fact.” 

“Have you known him a long time?” 

“My father was his father’s servitor.” 

“His servitor! You belong, then, to his family?” 

“I am a soldier, and Monsieur d’Assonville has at times 
done me the honor to call me his friend.” 

“Ah!” said the lady, with an accent of surprise mixed 
with disdain. 

Then she continued : 

“Do you know nothing of the causes which led Mon- 
sieur d’Assonville to send you to me?” 

“Nothing.” 

“How can you assure me of it?” 

“My word.” 

“Your word!” said she, shaking her fan. 

She did not add a syllable, but it was impossible to mis- 
take the expression of her voice. 


A DAUGHTER OF EVE. 


79 


“Those who believe in falsehood practice it,” Belle-Rose 
boldly said. 

The unknown trembled but did not reply, and addressed 
herself to Belle-Rose’s guide, expressing herself in a for- 
eign tongue. 

“Eh! madame, I cannot!” replied the guide, in French. 

“Who hinders you.” 

“The soldier, who has maintained his hold on me the 
whole length of the path and still maintains it.” 

“It is a whim which I pardon him, but which is going to 
finish this moment.” 

Belle-Rose made no reply, but his fingers did not for a 
moment ceaso to clasp the wrist of the guide. 

“Well! did you hear me?” said the impatient lady. 

“Perfectly; but why should I do what you desire?” 

“Because I wish it.” 

“That is a pretext at most, and I ask for a reason.” 

“Insolent !” exclaimed the unknown lady, springing to 
her feet. “Do you know that if I called, there are arms 
near here disposed to force you to obey and to punish you 
afterward?” 

“I believe it, madame; but at the first cry, at the first 
gesture, I shall stretch this guide dead at your feet.” 

The fair unknown drew back at the sight of the poniard 
suspended above the breast of the page. 

“And when he is dead, the others will see that they are 
dealing with a resolute man who is not easy to overcome. 
Call now!” repeated the sergeant. 

“Do not do it, madame; he would kill me as he says,” 
exclaimed the guide. 

“Ah! you are courageous, it appears,” said the masked 
woman. “I thank Monsieur d’Assonville for having sent 
me such a valiant ambassador.” 

“And I thank him for having chosen me for a mission 
in which arms must intervene in the midst of a discourse. 
Monsieur d’Assonville did not deceive me.” 

“What! is it indeed he who caused you to take this pon- 
iard?” she exclaimed, in an indignant voice. 

“Was he wrong, madame?” 

The unknown lady trembled at this question coldly pro- 
pounded, and Belle-Rose saw her neck purpled by a sud- 
den blush. She again seated herself upon the sofa and aj)- 
peared to gaze attentively at him. 

“Let us cut short this debate, ’’she softly said. “If 1 
give you my word that nothing shall be done to you, will 
you release that page?” 


80 


A DAUGHTER OF EVE. 


“He is free, madame. You have doubted my word; I 
will not insult you by doubting yours.” 

Belle-Rose’s hand opened, and the page stepped quickly 
to his mistress’ side. 

“He is a bold and handsome young fellow, truly!” ex- 
claimed the lady. “Upon my soul, here is a young soldier 
whom the captain’s epaulettes would become marvelously. 
Frank and firm as steel. ’ ’ 

The voice of the unknown charmed Belle-Rose like the 
sonorous vibrations of a harp. He listened to it still after 
she had ceased speaking, and his heart had the mysterious 
revelation of the boundless love which this woman ought 
to inspire, and the irremediable misfortune which ought 
to result from her relinquishment. He had just under- 
stood the mute despair 6f Monsieur d’Assonville. 

“Belle-Rose, wait,” she resumed; “you will be free in a 
moment.” 

The masked lady and the page spoke in low tones for 
some minutes ; then the latter, approaching a small ebony 
table upon which was some paper, presented a pen to his 
mistress, who wrote a letter, folded it, placed it in an en- 
velope, impressed a ring which she Wore upon her finger 
upon the burning wax and extended the dispatch to Belle- 
Rose. 

“Here is my reply, remit it promptly to Monsieur d’As- 
sonville, and forget everything — even the road which you 
have taken to come here. But if some day men fail you, 
strike boldly at the door in the Rue Cassette and give your 
name; a woman will recollect.” 

Belle-Rose bowed over the hand of the fair unknown 
and took the letter, touching, as he did so, the end of a 
perfumed glove with his lips. 

“May God preserve you, handsome cavalier!” said 
she, and casting a last glance at Belle-Rose, she disap- 
peared behind a curtain. 

“Are you coming?” said the page, as Belle-Rose, dazzled 
by that glance and shivering at those words, remained im- 
movable before the large folds of the purple damask. 

Belle-Rose trembled, and full of agitation, followed the 
guide. They descended the steps, traversed the forest 
without seeing any shadow this time, and mounted within 
the carriage. The page lowered the l)linds, and two hours 
after the carriage stopped at the entrance of the Rue de 
Vangirard. A lackey opened the portiere, Belle-Rose de- 
scended, and the equipage left at a gallop. When Belle- 
Rose reached the corner of the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sul- 


A DAUGHTER OF EYE. 


81 


pice, the honest Monsieur Meriset was in great trouble. 
The worthy proprietor had not gone to bed. His lamp, 
ordinarily extinguished about nine o’clock, was still burn- 
ing two hours after midnight, and standing behind his 
half-closed blinds, he cast anxious looks into the shadows 
of the street. 

‘'Ah! Monsieur Belle-Rose, w^hat a burden you lift from 
me!” said he to the sergeant. “I feared you w’ere dead.” 

“l am not so yet, but I may be at any time.” 

“Do not speak in that lugubrious fashion; at the pres- 
ent hour it is rather risky to use such language.” 

“Is it, then, to assure yourself that lam indeed alive 
that you have waited for me?” 

“It is also for handing you this paper which a gentle- 
man has left after having come twice. He has urgently 
insisted on its being given only to you, assuring me that it 
was very important.” 

While Monsieur Meriset was speaking, Belle-Rose opened 
the epistle and read these words by the light of the pro- 
prietor’s candle: 

“Monsieur de Villebrais is not dead, though he is not in a condition 
to rise soon, if he ever does; he has spoken, and the secret of your 
meeting has been confided to people who undoubtedly have given 
orders for your arrest. Your only hope is to fly, and the sooner the 
better. Quit Pails, and count upon me, whatever happens. 

“CoENELius O’Brien. ” 

Belle-Rose was^ expecting this news. He burned the note 
without showing any agitation, and drawing from his 
pocket a well-plenished purse, he asked Monsieur Meriset 
if he did not know some honest i)erson whom he could 
charge with a delicate commission. 

“I have my nephew, Christopher Meriset, a clever fel- 
low and as mute as a confessional.” 

“You answer for him.” 

“He is my heir.” 

“Then I confide to him this letter to carry and also 
another which I am going to write to a captain of lighfc- 
horse garrisoned at Arras.” 

“He will carry them. 

“Without delay?” 

“In an hour.” 

Belle-Rose wrote to Monsieur d’Assonville to inform him 
of w^hat he had seen and what events prevented his carry- 
ing in person the reply of the unknown lady. Immediately 
after the arrival of Nephew Christopher, he handed him 


82 


THE LIGHTING OF A PASSION. 


the two letters, with a recommendation to diligence; then 
leaving Monsieur Meriset a note for his sister Claudine, he 
imparted to him the necessity of his going away. 

“Ah ! my God ! will you not return?” said the landlord. 

“I will return, and I pray you to keep my room for me 
along with these ten louis, which will be yours if I am 
not back in fifteen days. I will only ask you to say noth- 
ing, either of what you have seen or of my departure, if 
perchance some curious person question you.” 

“I understand,” said Monsieur Meriset, who scented un- 
der this mystery -an affair of state, “I understand and will 
be silent. ” 

Belle-Hose undressed, put on some clothes belonging to 
Nephew Christopher, armed himself with a stick, and 
quitted the Hue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice. 

“It is to Monsieur de Naucrais I owe my sergeant’s hal- 
berd,” he said to himself; “it is to him I shall return it.” 


CHAPTER XI. 

THE LIGHTING OP A PASSION, 

At daybreak Belle-Rose found himself already three or 
four leagues beyond St. Denis, upon the route to Flanders. 
The country smiled in the white light of the morning, and 
joyous girls passed singing along the road. Around-Belle- 
Rose all was light and gayety ; within all was gloom and 
sadness. He had lost his sweetheart, he had just lost his 
liberty, he was going, undoubtedly, to lose his life. His 
heart swelled under this wave of bitter thoughts. He had 
struggled, he was conquered. But the voice of his con- 
science did not reproach him. About noon he stopped in a 
species of cabaret ; he had taken nothing since the even- 
ing before. The landlady, a petulant young woman, cooked 
an omelette in a turn of the hand. 

“^You are just in time, my boy,” she said to him. “A 
quarter of an hour later, and you would have run the risk 
of no longer finding either egg-shells or a crust of bread. 
Where the police pass nothing remains.” 

“Ah!” said Belle-Rose, “you are expecting the police of 
the king?” 

“Half a dozen rascals who are as thirsty as sand and hun- 
gry as dogs. But here they are advancing from the end of 
the plain. Do you see them, with their muskets upon their 
shoulders?” 


THE LIGHTING OF A PASSION. 


83 


“Very well! they are hunting some malefactor, no 
doubt? 

“Ah, yes! the country might be pillaged, and they 
would pay no attention to it. They are searching for a 
poor soldier. ’ ’ 

“A soldier?” 

“Some deserter, so a brigadier has told me. It is a ques- 
tion of a young man almost of your build, blonde like you, 
lithe and vigorous as you seem to bo.” 

The landlady ceased speaking to gaze at Belle-Rose. A 
flash of suspicion lit up her eyes. Belle-Rose started, threw 
some money on the table, and made toward the door. The 
butt-end of a musket struck the pebbles. The landlady 
rushed to the fugitive. 

“Chut!” she rapidly whispered to him, “I have under- 
stood nothing, guessed nothing, but do not advance. A 
foot in the road, and you are a dead man. Enter that cab- 
inet; I am going to occupy them with mv best wine. If 
they do not see you, they will leave in an hour, and you 
wili be saved. If they see you, dame! there is the win- 
dow.” 

Belle-Rose threw himself into the neighboring hall just 
as the door of the cabaret opened. 

“The sky is an oven and the road is a gridiron!” said 
the soldier, on entering. 

“So that ybu have an outrageous thirst,” replied the 
landlady. “Take, then, and drink,” she added, placing a 
pitcher of wine upon the table. 

Those who came by way of the plain entered at the same 
moment. The majority of them threw their hats and mus- 
kets upon the benches and sat down around the table. The 
landlady passed and repassed through the cabinet, which 
had an outlet into the kitchen. 

“They are drinking,” she said, quite low, to Belle-Rose. 

“All of them?” 

“All except one.” 

Belle Rose opened the window. 

At the landlady’s third trip, a soldier followed her. 

“Leave me alone and finish your dinner,” said she. 

“No, your arms are too beautiful.” 

“If they are beautiful, they are strong ; so take care of 
your cheeks.” 

“Eh! eh!” said the soldier, on perceiving Belle-Rose, 
“we are not alone! The company frightens love. Eh, 
friend, turn round slightly, so wo can see you.” 

Belle-Rose trembled at the sound of this voice, which 


84 


THE LIGHTING OP A PASSION. 

was not unknown to him. He placed one hand upon the 
window, turned round, and recognized Bouletord, who had 
passed from the artillery to the police, where he had val- 
iantly won the lace of a brigadier. 

“Belle-Rose!” he exclaimed. “Eh! eh! comrade, we have 
an old account to settle. You are my prisoner. ” 

“Not yet, ” said Belle-Rose, placing his foot upon the 
window. 

Bouletord rushed toward him, but a furious blow of the 
fist stretched him out on the floor, and in a bound Belle- 
Rose crossed the window. At the brigadier’s cries, the po- 
lice ran up, but by a singular inadvertence, in wishing to 
aid Bouletord, the landlady had pushed back the sash cov- 
ered with red curtains, so that the view of the country and 
the fugitive was obstructed. 

“What is the matter?” the soldiers asked. 

Bouletord, without replying, seized a musket, opened 
the window, and fired. The ball knocked off the bark of 
a willow ten steps from Belle- Rose. 

“Poor fellow!” said the landlady, “how he runs!” 

“Make haste!” Bouletord cried to his men. “It is our 
deserter. If he escapes he robs us of ten louis.” 

The police took up the pursuit of the fugitive, but they 
were embarrassed by their shoulder-straps, and Belle-Rose 
gained ground. From the window at which she was lean- 
ing, the landlady assisted at this improvised chase. In- 
stead of a stag, it was a man who was being run down. 

“How he goes!” she said, in a low tone, all the while 
following the episodes of this race, and without suspect- 
ing that she was speaking aloud. “See him traversing the 
clover of Pere Benoit. Good ! he leaps the ditch. He has 
the legs of a squirrel, that boy ! Ah ! there is a soldier 
stretched out ; he has struck his foot against a ^tump, the 
awkward fellow! and another; this one has got entangled 
in the scabbard of his saber. The deserter is already far 
away; he will certainly escape them. Ah f my God! the 
brigadier stops a marsh-gardener ; he takes his horse, gets 
astride of it, pricks it with the point of his sword, and 
leaves at a gallop. The brigadier remembers that blow of 
the fist! Another soldier imitates him, then still another. 
Three soldiers on horseback against one man on foot ! He 
is lost ! Ah ! he has heard them ; see him entering the 
plowed land — he is far from being a fool ! The horses are 
heavy; they will sink in. Well! they are already going 
less quickly. And he? the poor fellow flies like a partridge; 
he leaps the streams. Hold ! where does he wish to go? 


THE LIGHTING OP A PASSION. 


85 


Ah! he has thought of the woods, and he is quite right! 
He approaches^ he reaches them, he enters — has disap- 
peared!” 

When Belle-Hose had penetrated the woods, he ran for 
some minutes still — ran till he no longer heard the noise 
of the horses galloping upon the edge. He then took to 
one side, made a hundred steps, and hid himself in a 
thicket. Bouletord and his two acolytes arrived ; at this 
place the paths forked. The brigadier took to the right, 
the soldiers took to the left, and three minutes after the 
noise of their course was lost in the distance. Belle-Rose, 
secure in that direction, and wishing to avoid the pursuit 
of the police on foot, who would not fail to search the 
woods, again ran straight before him through the un- 
derbrush. He ran against a wall and crossed it. At the 
end of a quarter of an hour he found himself upon the 
border of an avenue which was divided by a stream, 
across which a bridge had been thrown. A gate closed it; 
on one side, a large chateau rose up at the other end. 
Belle-Rose looked forth ; he saw nothing, heard nothing. 
Decidedly the police had lost their way. ... He entered the 
avenue and walked toward the chateau. He had scarcely 
made twenty steps, when he perceived some distance away 
a lady on horseback and behind her a servant in livery. 
The lady appeared to be reading a letter which the lackey 
no doubt had just handed her. From the foam which 
whitened his bit-and his neck, one might believe that the 
valet’s horse had completed a long journey, while that ot 
the lady, frisky and mettlesome, seemed impatient to be 
going. The lady, who" appeared young and beautiful, had 
scarcely finished her reading when, crumpling the letter 
in her hand, she applied a vigorous stroke of the whip to 
her horse ; the horse, surprised, gave a bound and left like 
an arrow. His mistress uttered a cry, the valet 'threw 
himself forward, but he could not seize the bridle of the 
horse, who fled down the avenue. He was going to thread 
the bridge thrown across the stream, when a branch, 
driven by the wind, got entangled in his legs. The horse, 
frightened, leaped upon the bank of the river, which was 
very steep at this place. His hind feet were on the edge, 
and the faux pas might precipitate him into the deep 
water which laved the arches of the bridge. Belle-Rose 
saw the peril at a glance. He leaped upon the bank, seized 
the horse by the bit, and jerked him to one side. The lady, 
paler than a corpse, sprang from the saddle, and Belle- 
Rose and the smoking courser rolled upon the grass. Belle- 


86 


THE LIGHTING OF A PASSION. 


/ 

Rose heard only one cry, and fainted. When he came to 
himself, he was extended upon a sofa in a large and mag- 
nificently furnished room. His first act was to carry his 
hand to his forehead ; a keen pain answered the contact of 
his fingers. 

“Yes, yes, you are wounded! It would have only taken 
half an inch more for the horse’s hoofs to strike your 
temple. Adonis has been adroit in his awkwardness.” 

Belle-Rose looked to see who was speaking, and recog- 
nized the lady whom he had just drawn from so great a 
peril. He wished to raise himself to thank her for the care 
which she had taken of him. 

“Keep still,” said she, “you are not in condition to 
move with the wound in your head and the bleeding 
which your arm has undergone.” 

Belle-Rose only then perceived that his left arm was 
surrounded with bandages. He smiled and again fixed 
his eyes upon the lady who was seated before him in a 
large fauteuil. Her riding habit, torn in three or four 
places, was stained with blood ; she, too, carried her arm 
in a sling, and her streaming hair fell in long, brown 
tresses around her face, where shone wondrously beauti- 
ful eyes. In the midst of the confused sensations agitating 
his soul, it seemed to the young officer that it was not the 
first time the sound of that voice had struck his ear ; but 
he could not recall either in what place or under what cir- 
cumstances he had heard it. As to the lady’s face, it was 
altogether unknown to him. She answered Belle-Rose’s 
smile by another smile ; but there was something bitter 
and disdainful in the movement of her lips which robbed 
them of their grace. 

“I understand,” said she; “you have felt nothing, 
neither the fall, nor the kick, nor the removal to the 
chateau upon a litter, nor the bleeding, nor the bandag- 
ing. A pretty woman would not have fainted better.” 

Belle-Rose blushed slightly. 

“But,” continued the lady, “you fell from the clouds, 
then, when you so brusquely seized hold of Adonis?” 

Belle-Rose had forgotten everything. The lady’s ques- 
tion made him recollect. He saw again, at the same time, 
his duel, his departure, his flight, and was silent, measur- 
ing in thought the solitude and misfortune into which his 
life had just been plunged. 

“Oh ! I do not ask you for your secret,” continued his 
interlocutrix. “You have saved my life — the least that I 
can do for you is to let you preserve silence. But, upon 


THE LIGHTING OF A PASSION. 


87 


my soul, the man who has come near causing my death, 
after having killed Monsieur de Villebrais, has now a 
double account to settle with me. ” 

Belle-Rose gazed at the lady in astonishment. She w\as 
frowning, her lips were contracted, and from her cheeks a 
feverish blush had just chased the pallor. 

“Monsieui de Villebrais!” exclaimed Belle-Rose, raising 
himself slightly. 

“Do you know him?” said the unknown. 

“An officer in the artillery?” added the wounded man. 

“Precisely. An officer in the artillery whom I was ex- 
pecting at the chateau ; his murderer has fled ; but I know 
w^ell how to reach him wherever he conceals himself. ’ ’ 

“It is then his life you wish, madame?” 

“Certainly! after the crime, the punishment.” 

“Take it, then!” exclaimed Belle-Rose, “for I am he 
whom you seek.” 

“You! but you have struck him from behind!” 

“I struck Monsieur de Villebrais in front, sword clash- 
ing sword, and if I have struck him, ’tis because he had 
insulted a woman.” 

“Some grisette!” 

“My sister, madame.” 

“Eh! what matters it to me? What difference makes it 
though it was your sister?” 

“Madame!” exclaimed Belle-Rose, “I have delivered my 
life to you, but I have not delivered to you the honor of 
my family. Have me killed, if you like, but do not insult 
me.” 

Belle-Rose was standing ; an extraordinary emotion ani- 
mated his countenance, and over his pale forehead Altered 
some drops of blood; the brilliancy of his eyes, the au- 
thority of his gesture, the bold expression of his voice, 
awed the unknown lady. She who seemed accustomed to 
command, hesitated, her eyes fixed upon that young face 
full of strength, and resolution. She felt moved even to 
the depth of her heart, and was astonished to no longer 
find movement or speech to answer the daring youth who 
dominated her. 

Seeing her silent, Belle-Rose forgot his indignation ; a 
sweet smile passed over his colorless lips, and bowing 
with a grace full of simplicity, he said : 

“Pardon, madame, I was defending my sister against 
your anger, but I abandon the brother to your vengeance.” 

The eyes of the unknown lady softened ; she quivered 
all over, and murmured, in a voice inexpressibly sweet: 


88 


THE LIGHTING OF A PASSION. 


“Young, brave, and handsome — all at the same time!’’ 

Then she continued, smilingly : 

“You are too much in the right for Monsieur de Ville- 
brais not to be a little in the wrong.” 

It would be difficult to account for the profound joy 
which expanded in the heart of Belle-Kose. It certainly 
was not born of the hope of escaping an inevitable con- 
demnation ; he had determined to go and seek it himself. 
Was it not rather occasioned by the interest which the 
fair unknown seemed to take in him? Belle-Rose alone 
would have been able to explain the nature of his sensa- 
tions, and they were still too confused for him to think of 
analyzing them, 

“Monsieur de Villebrais is nevertheless a good swords- 
man?” said the lady, following with the eyes upon the 
face of Belle-Rose the reflection of his fugitive thoughts. 
“You are then very redoubtable, sword in hand?” 

“I had right on my side, madame.” 

“If you defend a sister so valiantly, what, then, would 
you do for a mistress?” 

“I would do my best.” 

“Then she whom you love will be well guarded.” 

At these words, which recalled Suzanne to him, Belle- 
Rose blushed. The lady took notice of it. 

“Ah! you love!” said she, casting a rapid glance at the 
wounded man. 

At this moment a waiting woman entered the apart- 
ment. On seeing Belle-Rose she trembled ; but the un- 
known lady, making the gesture of throwing back the 
tresses of her hair, placed her finger upon her lips. 

“The carriage which madame asked for is ready,” said 
the waiting woman. 

The duchess was about to depart. Belle -Rose wished to 
salute her, but the effort w’hich he had just made in rising 
had exhausted his strength ; he tottered and leaned upon 
the back of a fauteuil to keep from falling. 

“Monsieur de Villebrais is dying,” said the waiting wo- 
man to her mistress, speaking low. 

The duchess had advanced toward the door; on turning 
back to throw a last look at Belle-Rose, she saw the livid 
pallor extending over his forehead, which was moistened 
by a tiny stream of blood. With a haughty gesture, she 
dismissed the waiting woman and rushed to him. 

“I remain,” said the duchess. 


THE DREAMS OF A SUMMER DAY. 


89 


CHAPTER XII. . 

THE DREAMS OP A SUMMER DAY. 

For some days Belle-Rose remained concealed, a prey to 
a burning fever; the strength of his constitution and the 
vigor of his will had at first succeeded in making the evil 
appear less than what it was ; but he was finally forced 
to give way to the violence of the reaction which took 
place in him. His body and mind were no longer able to 
offer any resistance. Very often, while the delirium made 
numberless dreams pass through his imagination, he 
thought he saw, leaning over his bed, a woman’s face 
half vailed by long ringlets of hair. Then he called Su- 
zanne in a voice broken by sobs, and his parched lips were 
glued to white hands which were abandoned to his kisses. 
But — strange thing! — in those hours when the love of 
Belle-Rose was infiamed by all the fires of fever, the face 
of the unknown was turned aside, and all her body trem- 
bled like a branch shaken by the wind. A day came on 
which the patient was able to cast a more tranquil look 
around him. The silence was profound. In the transparent 
shadows of a room where the light was intercepted by 
silken hangings, a woman, surrounded by the long folds 
of a white dress, was seated in a fauteuil. A scarcely fin- 
ished dream floated still before the eyes of Belle-Rose ; he 
extended his arms to the deceitful image of his sweet- 
heart, and his mouth murmured softly the name of Su- 
zanne. / 

“I am not Suzanne,” said the stranger. 

Belle-Rose propped himself up on his elbow and looked 
at her. The vail in which fever had imprisoned his soul 
disappeared like those vapors of the morning which are 
extinguished by the first beams of the sun. Belle-Rose 
recognized the duchess. A smile soft and sad illuminated 
her countenance. 

“It was you?” said he. 

“It is a friend whom you did not call and who watched 
over you,” replied the duchess. “But do not question me 
yet. I have orders to impose silence on you. Obey. ” 

The duchess placed a finger upon her lips and softly 
forced the soldier to lie down again. But she herself was 
the first to forget the instructions which she had charged 
herself with seeing executed. 


90 


THE DREAMS OE A SUMMER DAY. 


“Then you love this Suzanne?” said she, with a slight 
trembling of the voice. 

A sudden blush covered Belle-Rose’s cheeks. 

“Have I named her?” he exclaimed. “Oh, madame, par- 
don my delirium.” 

“Eh! monsieur, I do not ask you for excuses, but an 
avowal.” 

With anger, the sonorousness of her voice had returned. 
Lightning flashed in the duchess’ eyes, and her nostrils 
quivered. Belle-Rose, half raised upon his elbow, gazed 
at her for a minute ; calm and serene before this ill-re- 
strained anger, he said, with the simplicity of a Christian 
confessing his faith : 

“Yes, madame, I love her.” 

The eyes of the duchess were lowered under the glance 
of Belle-Rose ; she let her head fall upon her breast, and 
if the doubtful light of the room had permitted the 
wounded young man to gaze upon that bowed face, he 
would have seen a tear glide over her cheek like a drop of 
dew over polished marble. 

“Is she your betrothed?” said she, in a voice so weak 
that it passed like a murmur between the pale and trem- 
bling lips. 

“No,” said Belle-Rose, sadly, “she is a friend whom 
I have lost.” 

The duchess’ glance was illuminated by a brilliant ray ; 
then, with her forehead supported on her hand, she kept 
silent. The Duchesse de Chateaufort was then in all the 
splendor of her beauty. Tall, slender, with an admirably 
formed waist, her whole person offered a happy mixture 
of grace and dignity ; she possessed naturally that easy 
walk, that noble carriage, and that grand air for which 
the ladies of the court of Louis XIV. were renowned 
through all Europe. The warmth of the Spanish blood, 
wdiich she derived from her mother, was betrayed in the 
humid sparkle of her limpid and radiant eyes, in the mute 
appeal of her purple lips, in the undulating movements of 
her supple body, in the caresses of her voice filled with 
pure and velvety sounds. Madame de Chateaufort trans- 
formed herself like a fairy, and under the great lady often 
shone the enchantress. She knew how to give her mouth, 
of a proud and disdainful contour, the suave outline of an 
ingenuous smile ; the pale transparence of her cheeks, of 
her neck, of her shoulders, was at times illuminated by 
rosy tints, as reddens the snow under a kiss from the sun. 
This divine statu© grew animated under the lightning of 


THE DKEAMS OF A SUMMEE DAY. 


91 


passion ; and like the antique goddess, she appeared to 
the charmed eyes resplendent with life, you^h, and love. 
Madame de Chateaufort passed for one of the most influ- 
ential women belonging to the court of the young king ; 
her husband, governor of one of the provinces in the 
south of France, complacently left her at Paris, where he 
could hope everything from his wife’s credit. In return 
for this influence, Monsieur de Chateaufort accorded to 
the duchess, his wife, a liberty which she made full use 
of. There was between them a sort of tacit compromise 
whose clauses were loyally executed. To him titles, honor, 
dignities; to her luxury, ifleasures, independence. At the 
epoch of wfliich we speak, such associations as these, con- 
secrated by the sacrament of marriage, were tolerated, 
perhaps even authorized in morals, and no one thought of 
speaking ill of their consequences. Those who made 
Madame de Chateaufort’s conduct the subject of their 
conversations did not think of blaming, her ; young people 
cultivated her acquaintance because they were flattered to 
know her, others on accoitnt of their ambition At the 
time Madame de Chateaufort met Belle-Rose, the rumor 
#of her amour with Monsieur de Villebrais began to spread 
at court. The reflned ones were astonished and sought the 
cause of it; the old lords, who had made war under 
Madame de Chevreuse and Madame de Longueville, did 
not worry themselves about a small thing like that. 

“It is, because it is, ” said they. “Does any one know 
why the wind blows?” 

But that which no one doubted was that the reign of 
Monsieur de Villebrais had seen its last hour; from its 
dawn to its twilight, this amour had only been a flash. 
The noble pride, the calm and reflective audacity of Belle- 
Rose, had surprised Madame de Chateaufort; his youth, 
his good looks, had touched her. Under the dress of a 
soldier, she had just recognized the language and senti- 
ments of a gentleman ; never had so much isolation and 
resolution appeared under the grave and charming figure 
of a young man. Belle-Rose had revealed himself to 
Madame de Chateaufort in the midst of circumstances 
which were attached to an epoch of her life which she 
could never forget ; he had shown himself filled, at the 
same time, with hardihood and noble confidence; he had 
saved her life and had offered her his own in exchange; 
around his youth shone the aureole of a mysterious love. 
Is it surprising that curiosity, astonishment, interest, a 
thousand confused and inexplicable sensations, had de- 


92 


THE DKEAMS OF A SUMMEE DAY. 


tained Madame de Chateaufort near the bleeding form of 
Belle-Rose? When she had remained, she forgot Monsieur 
de Yillebrais, and when she had forgotten the officer, she 
loved the soldier. But this new love did not triumph over 
her pride without a struggle. Twenty times a rebel against 
the tender and tumultuous sentiments which this passion 
born of accident raised in her heart, she wished to bieak 
the chain which kept her at the bedside of the patient, 
but an hour’s absence soon brought her back more in- 
flamed and more submissive than ever. She was no longer 
the imperious w^oman with whom words were commands, 
who chose in the crowd of courtiers, and who knew how 
to remain free and mistress of herself even in her going 
astray. She loved, and the disdain of her soul was lost in 
the breath of a tenderness as infinite as unexpected. 
Leaning over the bed to which fever bound Belle-Rose, she 
listened to his delirium, her heart bounding at each word, 
and let flow, without seeing them, the tears to which she 
was no longer accustomed. When the convalescence came, 
Madame de Chateaufort enlivened its first days by her 
siduous presence and the thousand enchantments of her 
mind ; and the first time Belle-Rose passed the threshold; 
of his room, she made him lean on her arm. Belle-Rose 
still loved Madame d’Albergotti, but we must acknowledge 
also that he willinglydeaned on the arm of Madame de 
Chateaufort. True that, for nothing in the world would 
he have wished to betray her to whom all his soul had 
been given ; but at the least rustling of a satin dress glid- 
ing over the sand of the paths, all the secret dreams, all 
the confused desires of his youth fled to Madame de Cha- 
teaufort. His love for Madame d’Albergotti was pure and 
calm like a lake shaded by ■willows ; he saw the bottom at 
the first glance, and his heart drew from it a tender mel- 
ancholy which left to his dreams their certainty and their 
limpidity ; but at the sight of Genevieve de Chateaufort, 
all his soul was troubled, a strange tumult took place in 
his mind, he felt mount to his lips a thousand burning 
words, looked wildly at her, and fled, no longer knowing 
whether love was that profound and sincere worship which 
he vowed to the name of Suzanne, or the delirium which 
was lit by the presence of Genevieve. Nevertheless he re- 
mained, and like those travelers slumbering under the 
odoriferous foliage of the Antilles which conceals poison 
in its perfumes, he no longer had the strength to shake off 
the intoxicating sleep produced by a nascent passion. 

Belle-Rose had not the liberty of leaving the park, but 


THE DREAMS OF A SUMMER DAY. 


93 


in its extent, sprinkled with gardens and patches of wood, 
he w’andered at hazard ; only he did not wander alone. In 
the eyes of the servants at the chateau, he passed for a 
gentleman, as he wore the dress and sword of one, and 
the lackeys invariably called him Monsieur de Verval. 
This name Madame de Chateaufort had given him, the bet- 
ter to conceal his identity. 

“That is one way to save Belle-Rose,” she had said. 

Belle-Rose understood ; the lackeys could talk at their 
ease of Monsieur de Verval. Never, under the name of 
that gentleman, would Bouletord and the police scent the 
sergeant of artillery. Madame de Chateaufort absented 
herself a short while about this time, and Belle-Rose’s con- 
science began to worry him over that feverish idleness 
which attached him to a woman when the care of his hap- 
piness called him to Laon. Therefore he determined to 
break these new ties which interfered with his liberty. 
Some words written in haste informed Claudine and Cor- 
nelius of the events which had followed his departure 
from Paris and of the decision which he had just come to. 
He confided his letters to a lackey, with a request to carry 
them in all haste to the residence of Madame d’Albergotti. 
Three or four louis assured him of the valet’s diligence, 
and he awaited the return of Madame de Chateaufort in 
order to declare to her his intention of leaving imme- 
diately. The intervening time was passed by him in a 
very restless manner. Belle-Rose knew that he did not 
have any too much courage for sustaining the sight of 
Genevieve, and he asked himself if it w^ould not be better 
to go away without speaking to her. The fear of offending 
her stopped him ; strange thought at the moment when he 
had decided to flee her presence for good and all ! Madame 
de Chateaufort returned very late on this day ; midnight 
had just struck when thO' park gate opened, and before 
Belle-Rose could speak to her, she had passed into her 
apartments. The sergeant put off then his declaration and 
his departure till the next day. Could any one have de- 
scended to the bottom of his heart, perhaps it would have 
been discovered that he was not too much afflicted by this 
disappointment. Madame de Chateaufort and Belle-Rose 
occupied a detached building separated from the principal 
one, which the workmen were engaged in repairing; 
Belle-Rose’s apartment was on the ground . floor, that of 
the duchess on the first story. Both opened upon the park. 
The night was superb; numberless stars, scattered like 
gold-dust over the velvet of the sky, projected, into space 


94 


THE DREAMS OF A SUMMER DAY. 


a trembling light, while the somber clumps of the trees in 
the park vailed the uncertain horizon. Belle- Rose opened 
the window and bared his forehead to the fresh breezes of 
the night ; the agitation of his thoughts did not permit 
him to taste repose, and instead of delivering his mind to 
the dreams of sleep, he abandoned it to the dreams of love. 
He had been dreaming for an hour or two, when he saw 
the black curtain of trees illuminated under the red re- 
flections of a sudden light. Flames succeeded flames, and 
their splendor made purple the sky where paled the stars. 
Belle-Rose, astonished, crossed his window-sill and turned 
to the story where Madame de Chateaufort slept. 
A thousand flames were escaping through the balconies 
where whirled streams of sparks. At the same moment 
cries of fright came from all sides, and the women ser- 
vants of the duchess, surprised by the fire in the midst of 
their sleep, rushed from room to room, half-naked ; full 
of terror they ran at hazard, fleeing the flames which 
crawled along the facades, devoured the hangings, ex- 
panded like flaming plumes at the end of the chimneys, 
and rolled like waves under the propulsion of the wind. 
The guards and lackeys, awakened by the threatening 
noises of the fire, armed themselves with ladders and 
buckets; all the domestics in the chateau were on foot in 
a moment and ran to the detached building on which the 
fire was preying. Belle -Rose. was the first to recognize the 
imminence and extent of the peril; the fire, communi- 
cated, no doubt, to some curtain by a neglected candle, 
ought to make rapid progress in an apartment where the 
carpets, the hangings, the furniture heaped together lent 
a thousand aids to its impetuosity. A cry of horror es- 
caped his lips, he rushed to the stair- way, and in a secon 1 
succeeded in gaining the story occuxned by Madame de 
Chateaufort. Fright lent him treble strength ; the first 
door he came across was shattered at the first shock, and 
he threw himself into the hall filled with flames. The 
maids passed by his side like phantoms. Belle-Rose kei^t 
on advancing, a last door fell under the effort of his pow- 
erful hands, a whirlwind of smoke and sparks enveloped 
him ; but he had already seized in his arms the body of a 
woman who was calling him. Then, more rapid th^n an 
arrow, inspired by the precious burden reposing bn his 
breast, bounding over the blackened floor, between cal- 
cined w'alls, down the burning stair-way, he crossed the 
penon with the startling rapidity of a shadow, and fleeing 
the fire whose refulgance pursued him, he deposited Gen- 


THE DREAMS OF A SUMMER DAY. 


95 


evieve in a pavilion built upon the edge of the park. 
Madame de Chateaufort, half suffocated, had recognized 
Belle-Rose just as the demolished door gave him passage. 
The soldier’s name died upon her lips, she wrapped her 
arms around Belle-Rose’s neck and closed her eyes, intox- 
icated with love and fright. This fantastic trijD in the 
midst of the flames and the sinister noises , of the fire, 
while she was supported upon Belle-Rose’s heart, fascin- 
ated her. When Belle-Rose had laid her upon the sofa, he 
knelt down near her, and taking both her hands in his, he 
covered them with tears and kisses. 

“Living! oh, my God, living!” he exclaimed. 

Madame de Chateaufort opened her eyes; her dream 
was over. Belle-Rose parted Madame de Chateaufort’s 
floating hair, took her head between his hands, gazing at 
her with eyes aflame under tears, and, pale with love, 
kissed her on the forehead. Madame de Chateaufort shiv- 
ered from head to feet ; her eyes closed, and her lips re- 
turned Belle-Rose’s kiss. The soldier started to his feet, 
tottering like a wounded man. 

“You are saved,” said he; “let me go away.” 

Genevieve started up with a bound. 

“Go! you speak of going?” she exclaimed. 

“Eh! madame, let; it be to-day or to-morrow, is it not 
necessary for me to leave you?” 

The light of the fire half difesipat^d the obscurity of the 
pavilion ; Madame de Chateaufort, beautiful with terror, 
drew round her form the floating folds of her dress ; over 
her naked shoulders streamed the brown tresses of her 
long hair, fever and fright were painted in her gaze, an- 
guish and prayer upon her face. Never had she appeared 
so charming to the eyes of Belle-Rose ; the doubtful light 
which surrounded her heightened the divine expression of 
her beauty. Vainly repressed, the passion of the soldier 
burst forth in a cry. 

“You see that I love you ! let me leave!” said he. 

Genevieve fell back upon the sofa, overwhelmed with 
joy. 

“Had you not guessed it, madame?” said Belle-Rose; “I 
- love you with the passion of a madman and the fright of 
a child. But what am I to you? A poor soldier picked up 
on the highway, a fugitive, a deserter to whom your pity 
has offered an exile. And this soldier loves you — you who 
are bear^tiful, rich, powerful, honored; you are a duchess 
of the king’s court. I have forgotten everything, madame, 
what I am and what you are, and I dare tell you of it ! In 


96 


A SEBPENT IN THE SHADOW. 


order to make me quits with you, God has permitted me 
to save you once again. Now let me leave!” 

Madame de Chateaufort arose frightened and all in 
tears ; her eyes shone like two diamonds. . 

“Leave!” she exclaimed; “but I love you!” 


CHAPTER XIII. 

A SERPENT IN THE SHADOW. 

Belle-Rose did not leave ; the first link in the strong and 
burning chain of pleasure was riveted to his heart. He 
trod a flowery path strewn with those enchantments which 
are born under the footsteps of beauty, youth, and love. 
In the meantime a letter reached him from Cornelius 
O’Brien; it informed him that Monsieur de Villebrais, 
who, contrary to expectation, had recovered from his 
wounds, was pressing the pursuit of which Belle-Rose was 
the object ; that Monsieur d’Assonville, after being shot 
in an engagement with some raiders on the frontier, had 
just quitted his cantonment ; it was believed that he had 
left for Paris with the intention of consulting some sur- 
geons more skillful than those of/ his squadron. As to 
Claudine, she was in the country with her mistress, whom 
Monsieur d’Albergotti had taken to the Duchess de 
Longueville’s, with whom he had been on friendly terms 
in the time of the Fronde. Cornelius O’Brien promised his 
friend to And out what steps Monsieur de Villebrais would 
take, and to inform him of those particular ones which 
might be of interest to him. Belle-Rose may have sighed 
after he read the letter, but perceiving Madame de 
Chateaufort advancing to him, he no longer thought of it. 
Belle-Rose and Genevieve often wandered over the park 
on each other’s arms, sat down at the most solitary places, 
followed the shadiest paths, and let the day fade and the 
night begin without counting the hours. But during the 
last two or three days they found that they were not 
alone, no matter where they were. A man kept them un- 
der espionage in their rambles, and after night came, fol- 
lowed in their footsteps. Concealed in the thickets of the 
park, he watched for their approach and seemed to be 
waiting, patient and silent as a tiger, for a propitious hour 
to carry out a mysterious design. At times, as the two 
lovers plunged into the obscurest part of the park, a noise 


A SERPENT IN THE SHADOW. 


97 


of twic:s crnsbed under an invisible foot broke the silence. 
Belle-Rose, accustomed through his watches around the 
bivouac to take note of the most confused sounds, turned 
his head 

“It is a squirrel frightened by the noise of a kiss, ” said 
Madame de Chateaufort. 

Farther on, the soldier thought he saw, between the 
clumps of trees, a rapid shadow fleeing ; but before he 
could distinguish its outline, the apparition had vanished. 

“You see phantoms and do not see my smile, ” said his 
mistress. 

One evening they came to a loart of the park where the 
wall formed an angle. At the point of the angle, under 
some clusters of honeysuckle and clematis, a door opened 
upon the country. The brown tones of stone and wood 
were confounded under a trembling curtain of foliage. 
The grass seemed trampled around the door; two or three 
broken branches hung along the walls. 

“Do the guards make use of this door?” asked Belle- 
Rose. 

“No, it is almosf unknown to the employees of the 
chateau.” 

“Some one has passed through it nevertheless.” 

“No one has the key to this door,” replied Madame de 
Chateaufort, 

“Look,” repeated Belle-Rose, indicating with his finger 
a tuft of bruised mallow. 

“Yesterday we passed along the wall; your hands were 
in mine; do you know where our feet were placed?” 

Nevertheless Belle-Rose was not the plaything of an il- 
lusion. While Madame'de Chateaufort was dissipating his 
momentarily awakened fears. Monsieur de Villebrais was 
following them from copse to copse. Dressed in common 
clothes, he had taken lodging, under a borrowed name, in 
a disrei^utable inn in the neighborhood, and when night 
came he introduced himself into Madame de Chateaufort’s 
park, where the desire for vengeance called him. Aston- 
ished at the silence of Madame de ChMeaufort, who had 
not answered his letters. Monsieur de Villebrais, as soon 
as he was able to walk, had asked for an interview. But 
when Madame de Chateaufort forgot, she did not half for- 
get. She sent back then to Monsieur de Villebrais the let- 
ters which he had addressed to her, at the same time ask- 
ing him to return hers, and to renounce all hope of ever 
seeing her again. The lieutenant of artillery knew the in- 
fluence of the duchess, he obeyed so as to avoid making an 


9S 


A SERPENT IN THE SHADOW. 


implacable enein3^; but before sending back the key which 
she herself had given him, he had one forged exactly sim- 
ilar to it, promising himself to make use of it when the 
occasion called for it. This occasion soon presented itself. 
The seclusion in which Madame de ChMeaufort had been 
living for two or three months began to be remarked at 
court. Monsieur de Villebrais ascribed this seclusion to the 
inconstancy of his mistress, and came to the conclusion 
that a new love dominated her. Wishing to know his 
happy rival, he disguised himself, left for the residence of 
Madame de Chateaufort, penetrated the park, and saw the 
duchess pass on Belle-Rose’s arm. At sight of the soldier, 
Monsieur de Villebrais with difficulty restrained a cry of 
rage ; the man who had insulted him, and who had con- 
quered him sword in hand, had now stolen his mistress ! 
It was too much by half Tor him to endure. For one mo- 
ment Monsieur de Villebrais thought of rushing forward, 
and, arming himself with the military authority, reclaim 
the deserter ; but he knew that the duchess was a woman 
who would never pardon such an offense, and the fear of 
being cut short in his career by her resentment stopped 
him. This constraint only served to render more keen his 
desire for vengeance. Not being able to struggle openly, 
he determined to wait and to confide to his own arm the 
task of making Belle-Rose pay at a single stroke for all 
the wounds which he had received from him. To better 
enchain Belle-Rose, Madame de Chateaufort multiplied 
the pleasures permitted him by a sojourn in the country. 
The chase entered largely into these pleasures. One morn- 
ing, just as she was preparing to mount on horseback to 
hunt the stag, her waiting woman ran frightened up the 
steps of the chateau. She held a letter in her hand. 

“I will read it this evening,” said the duchess. 

The waiting woman stopped her as she was setting foot 
in the stirrups, and spoke to her in a low tone. 

“What does it matter?” said her mistress, impatiently. 

And she leaped into the saddle. A moment after, the 
fanfares sounded and the chase was lost under the foliage. 

“Yes,” murmured the waiting woman, “he is young, 
handsome, and charming ; but the captain is at Paris, so 
let him beware!” 

The next day, while the duchess’ women were prepar- 
ing her clothing, the absent hand of Genevieve picked up 
on her toilet the disdained letter and opened it. At the 
first words, she grew pale ; at the last line she uttered a 
faint cry and trembled with agitation. 


A SEEPENT IN THE SHADOW. 


99 


“A carriage and horses!” she exclaimed. 

Her astonished waiting women did not move. 

“Do you hear me?” she repeated. “Horses! this very 
moment!” 

One woman, terrified by Madame de Chateaufort’s look, 
ran hastily out. 

“Where is Camille? Let her come,” she continued, 
twisting her long, scattered hair. 

Camille entered. At the first glance she understood that 
her mistress had just received some terrible news; the 
crumpled letter was in her hand. 

“When did you receive this letter?” exclaimed Madame 
de Chateaufort. 

“Yesterday, madame,”she replied; “yesterday morn- 
ing.” 

“And it is only to-day I get it!” 

“I presented it to you twice, and twice you repulsed 
me.” 

“Could you not constrain me to open it?” 

“Eh! madame he was present!” exclaimed Camille, in- 
dicating with a gesture of inexpressible eloquence Belle- 
Rose passing through the garden. 

“You did not know,” resumed Madame de Chateaufort, 
in a choking voice and with her hand upon Camille’s arm, 
“you did not know that this letter was from him; it is 
dated yesterday ; yesterday he expected me, and he has 
sworn by the name of his mother that if he did not see 
me, he would even come here!” 

“The carriage is ready,” a female attendant timidly 
said, half opening the door. 

Madame de Chateaufort clapped her hands like a child, 
and hastilj^ seizing a mask and her mantle, she drew 
Camille toward the door. 

“Come,” said she, “Tie is still in Paris, no doubt; noth- 
ing is lost.” 

Belle-Rose, warned by a lackey of Madame de Chateau- 
fort’s departure, took a gun and plunged into the park. 
Delivered to his meditations alone, he observed more 
surely the indications which had struck him in his preced- 
ing walks with Madame de Chateaufort. A spy was un- 
doubtedly prowling about the park The thought came to 
him that it might be Bouletord, who, infuriated by his 
discomfiture, was seeking a means to avenge himself. 
Belle-Rose resolved to immediately get rid of this impor- 
tunate personage. He went to the chateau, slipped into his 
pockets a poniard and pistols, took a sword, waited for 


100 


A SEEPENT IN THE SHADOW. 


night to come, and gained the park, thoroughly decided 
to make the visitor pay dear for his fatiguing surveillance. 

“He is seeking a deserter,” he said to himself; “he vs^ill 
find lead. ” 

Soon the shadows invaded the park ; the noises died, the 
lights of the evening were extinguished one by one in the 
woods filled with those mysterious murmurs wdiich mount 
from earth to sky on starr3^ nights. His steps led him to 
the angle in the park where the secret door gave an outlet 
to the country beyond. It was half open. Quite sure this 
time, Belle-Rose thought for a moment of breaking the 
blade of his poniard in the lock. His ear had warned him 
that already his promenade through the park had been 
spied. But he reflected that his spy, concealed, no doubt, 
in some thicket close about, understanding by this action 
that he was discovered, would escalade the wall and not 
show himself. Such was not the object of Belle-Rose. He 
continued his way, passing before the door as if he had 
not seen it. At the end of a hundred steps he stopped be- 
hind a large oak ; the moon had just disappeared behind a 
cloud. He listened. After three or four minutes of w’aiting, 
he heard the door turn upon its rusty hinges. The shad- 
ows were thick — he saw nothing; a noise of footsteps 
bi:oke the silence for a moment and soon died out. The 
soldier left his post of observation and follow^ed the spy, 
taking care to keep upon the edge of the paths where the 
thick grass stifled the noise of his progress. The road 
which the unknown followed ended at a glade from which 
several avenues radiated ; one of these avenues led to the 
chateau. Belle-Rose and Genevieve had frequently tra- 
versed it, and it was the route which they were accus- 
tomed to take when they returned at evening. Belle-Rose 
came to the conclusion that the spy, fully informed as to 
his habits, was going to wait for him at the corner of the 
avenue and there throw himself upon him. Thoroughly 
resolved to spare him the tedium of a long w^aiting, he was 
going to hasten his walk, when a cry came from the mid- 
dle of the glade, and, at the same moment, the clashing of 
two swords was heard. Belle-Rose rushed forward, pistol 
in hand, but he had not made fifty steps when the noise 
suddenly ceased; the moon, emerging from the clouds 
which vailed it, inundated the forest with light, and in 
this light Belle-Rose saw pass a fleeing man, wdio had a 
naked sword in his hand. He bounded lil^ a stag in pur- 
suit of him. The murderer glided like a shadow between 
the trees and seemed to have wings. Just as he crossed 


THE AGONY. 


101 


the edge of the wood, Belle-Rose fired his pistol at him, 
but the ball was lost in the trunk of a birch, and the fugi- 
tive disappeared through the little door in the park wall. 
At the moment Belle-Rose arrived before this door, the, 
gallop of a horse made him understand that the murderer 
was now beyond his reach. The murderer had fled, but his 
victim was undoubtedly stretched upon the ground in the 
glade ; who was that unfortunate whose life cut short by 
an assassination had saved his own? Belle-Rose hastened 
to the glade. A naked sword shone in the grass. Belle- 
Rose knelt down near the body. The blood came from two 
gaping wounds, one in the throat, the other full in the 
breast. At sight of that motionless body, whose mournful 
glance was turned toward heaven, Belle-Rose shivered 
from head to foot ; he leaned over, and raising the victim 
in his arms, he exposed his head to the moon’s pale rays. 
A cry of horror burst from his lips — he had just recognized 
Monsieur d’Assonville. 


CHAPTER XIV. 

THE AGONY. 

The pistol shot fired by Belle-Rose had awakened some 
guards ; they ran up and found him whom they called 
Monsieur de Verval engaged in stanching the flow of 
blood from a man who seemed already dead, so cold and 
immovable he was. Two of them placed the wounded man 
on a litter, another ran to seek the surgeon, and Belle- 
Rose, as pale as Monsieur d’Assonville, had him deposited 
in that same pavilion where, on the night of the fire, he 
had first revealed his love to Madame de Chateaufort. 
Some convulsive tremblings alone indicated that Mon- 
sieur d’Assonville was not yet dead. The transporting of 
him had reopened the wounds, and the blood flowed over 
the satin of the sofa. The grief of Belle-Rose was calm, 
but frightful^o see. Some tears fell drop by drop from 
his eyes. He who would have sacrificed his life to save 
Monsieur d’Assonville, saw him expiring under his eyes 
and for him. Meanwhile Monsieur d’Assonville, however, 
slowly regained his senses ; light entered once again his 
eyes ; powerful cordials had returned to the blood its nat- 
ural circulation. He turned his gaze toward the assembly, 
saw Belle-Rose, smiled, and extended him his hand. Belle- 
Rose took it and fell upon his knees, blessing God, 


102 


THE AGONY. 


“I had seen you, my friend,” said Monsieur d’Asson- 
ville, in very low tones, “but I thought 1 was dreaming. 
At least I shall not die alone!” 

“But you will not die, captain!” exclaimed the soldier. 

“Bah! better to-day than to-morrow; the worst is over. ” 

Monsieur d’Assonville collected his strength and suc- 
ceeded in slightly raising himself ; his cheeks and his lips 
became purple. The surgeon who had arrived observed 
him in silence. The man was beyond his power. 

“I have many things to say to you, my friend,” re- 
sumed the wounded man; “it is a sort of confession; to 
aid me to finish it, give me something to drink; my 
tongue is parched and my breast on fire.” 

Belle-Rose turned to the surgeon. 

“What must I give Monsieur d’Assonville?” he said to 
him. 

“What he wishes, milk or whisky.” 

Belle-Rose administered a cordial that was at hand. 

“Lost!” he murmured, in a choking voice. 

“Minutes are worth days,” said the wounded man. “See 
to it that we are alone. ” 

Belle-Rose made a sign of the hand, and each one went 
out. ^ 

“Place yourself there,” said Monsieur d’Assonville, 
pointing out to him a fauteuil. “My voice is weak. I 
should not like to die before having told you all.” 

“Will you pardon me, my God!” exclaimed Belle-Rose; 
“they have struck you, and it is I whom they sought.” 

“You!” said Monsieur d’Assonville, astonished. 

“Am I not a deserter?” 

“Bah! deserters are arrested, not assassinated. If some 
remorse pursues you, calm your conscience ; I have recog- 
nized the enemy — it is I whom he was expecting.” 

“You saw him ! His name, so that I may at least avenge 
you. ” 

“Avenge me! and why? Perhaps it is a service which he 
has rendered me. He was masked ; but in the heat of the 
action his mask fell. I only saw him a minute, and I 
recognized him. ‘Recollect Monsieur de Villebrais!’ he 
exclaimed, and fled.” 

“Monsieur de Villebrais! It was I whom he sought, I 
tell you! Do you not know that I struck him?” said Belle- 
Rose. 

“Does a quarrel of yesterday sharpen a sword like a 
hatred of ten years? I have seen the arm — he assassinated 
by order, ’ ’ 


THE AGONY. 


103 


Belle-Rose shivered from head to foot. 

“Dismiss this,” continued Monsieur d’Assonville, with 
a sad smile; “I am dead; what diiference does it make l)}^ 
whom and why ] am killed ! Other thoughts besiege me, 
and my mind is troubled. Listen, before 1 die ; afterward, 
avenge me if you wish.” 

Belle-Rose took Monsieur d’Assonville’s hand and 
pressed it. 

“Do you promise me to perform all my last requests?” 

“I swear it.” 

“I counted on it. Monsieur de Naucrais, my brother, is 
the possessor of a letter addressed to you. I handed it to 
him on leaving the army. 

“I was acquainted with your duel and your disappearance, 
but I knew you innocent. My conscience answered to me 
for you. ‘He will return,’ I said to myself, ‘and what I 
charge him with doing, he will do.’ You see that I was 
not deceived.” 

A fit of coughing stopped Monsieur d’Assonville; he car- 
ried a handkerchief to his lips, and withdrew it stained 
with a bloody foam. 

“My God 1 you are killing yourself!” exclaimed Belle- 
Rose. 

“Monsieur de Villehrais has slightly aided me to do so,” 
replied the captain, with a smile. 

“Put off the rest of your revelation till to-morrow; to- 
morrow you will be more calm.” 

“My friend, the dead do not speak. If you wish to hear 
what I have to say to you, you must listen to me to- 
night ” 

A burning blush covered the cheeks of Monsieur d’As- 
sonville, and to it succeeded the pallor of marble. Fever 
made his teeth chatter. Belle-Rose went from one end of 
the room to the other, wringing his hands. 

“I suffer slightly, ” said the captain; “why did he not 
kill me at the first blow? I stifie, and I am always thirsty, 
give me drink ” 

Belle-Rose presented him a cup filled with milk. The 
captain drank a swallow of it. 

“That is a diet-drink you are giving me! Have you not 
a bottle^of old Burgundy?” 

Belle-Rose drew a flask from a cupboard and filled a 
glass. He remembered the surgeon*s words. If Monsieur 
d’Assonville had asked him for whisky, he would have 
given it to him. The wounded man swallowed two glasses 
in succession. 


104 


THE AGONY. 


“Well and good!” said lie, “if death comes, it will find 
me prepared.” 

He made an effort to rise and sat down. His face sud- 
denly grew colored, his eyes were inflamed, he smiled. In 
that supreme moment, when life was struggling with 
death, the features of Monsieur d’Assonville were lit up 
by a wonderful beauty. Belle-Rose thought he saw him as 
on that day when, near theabbaye de St. Georges, he quitted 
the Hungarian cavaliers. 

“Therefore,” said the captain, “do what I asked you? I 
leave content. And nevertheless I have not seen her! You 
understand me, you who love! To leave without the hand 
of a woman constantly adored having pressed yours — ’tis 
a great grief ! Such is the fate reserved to me. Oh ! I have 
indeed suffered! You do not know all, you have not read 
in that heart where lived a dear and bitter recollection ; it 
has dried up the springs of hope. When one has loved as 
I have loved, and solitude follows, it is necessary to die — I 
am dying! You weep. Have I then anything to regret? 
She had killed my soul before killing my body.” 

The glow of fever shone in Monsieur d’Assoiiville’s eyes, 
and about his mouth rested a fleeting smile. He stopped 
himself for a moment; his eyes strayed over the room and 
then again fixed themselves upon Belle-Rose. 

“It is you who picked me up,” he suddenly said to him, 
“you who carried me here. Who has brought you here?” 

Belle-Rose blushed. 

“I was pursued, ” replied the sergeant, “an exile was 
offered me in this chateau, and I accepted it.” 

“A kind action! Take care, under this exile there is per- 
haps a tomb. ’ ’ 

Belle-Rose looked at Monsieur d’Assonville, whose 
words appeared inexplicable to him ; the complexion of 
the dying man had become livid ; his voice was disturbed, 
the agitation of his face extraordinary. 

“Some one has saved you! One day I also was saved 
when fleeing. It was many years ago, and I was twenty 
years of age. A young girl came to me, gave me her hand, 
led me on. The cries of my enemies were lost in the dis- 
tance, and the angel who saved me released my ha^ad and 
blushed. How beautiful she was, my God ! She concealed 
me some days — I loved her all my life! She also loved 
me; my transports delighted her, her love dazzled me. 
How many times have I not returned to that retreat where 
she appeared to me for the first time ! I was intoxicated ! 
the sight of her was heaven to my heart: If she had said 


THE AGONY. 


105 


tome, ‘I wish to be qreen,* I would have conquered a 
crown, sword or poniard in hand, I would have marched 
over the dead body of my king ! This love was an abyss of 
joy and delight. A year, I was plunged therein ; I came 
back mournful, wounded, bowed down. The evening be- 
fore I would have ridiculed the elect in their eternal fe- 
licity; the next day my heart was a hell! Mademoiselle 
de La None had married.’’ 

“Mademoiselle de La Noue!” repeated Belle-Rose. 

“Have I named her?” exclaimed Monsieur d’Assonville. 
“For many years that terrible name has not passed my 
lips. It is buried here as in a tomb,” he added, pressing 
his breast with both hands; “forget it — she had married, 
you understand, and yet she was a mother!” 

The sweat beaded upon Monsieur d’Assonville’s fore- 
head, and words came to his lips like a rattle. Belle-Rose 
listened to him, not certain but what delirium was influ- 
encing his reason. 

“Mother ! do you hear? she was a mother. Oh ! my child ! 
my God, my child!” 

Monsieur d’Assonville’s voice was stifled by sobs. Tears 
burst from the eyes of that man whom Belle^Rose had 
never ^een weep. A profound pity welled up in the heart 
of the soldier. 

“The monster!” said he. 

“One day the poor child was taken from me,” resumed 
the captain. “It could barely prattle, and never, no doubt, 
has it known my name.” 

“But what became of her?” said Belle-Rose. 

“She? Oh! she is rich, powerful, honored! She is a lady 
so proud and so high-placed that the greatest lords bow 
at her name.” 

“Oh! I will avenge you!” exclaimed Belle-Rose. 

“But I love her, and it is my child whom I wish!” re- 
plied Monsieur d’Assonville. 

The captain was frightful to behold. His face was white 
as a shroud, and from his eyes there fell great tears of de- 
spair; love and suffering gave to his physiognomy, alreadj^ 
bearing the seal of death, a heart-rending and sublime 
expression. At this moment, the noise of a carriage rolling 
in the court troubled the profound silence. The carriage 
stopped; Belle-Rose saw shining through the bhnds the 
torches of the outriders; the rustling of a silk dress 
reached his ear, the door of the pavilion opened, and 
Madame de Chateaufort appeared upon the threshold. 
Monsieur d’Assonville turned his head, saw her, and 


106 


A STEP TOWAED THE TOMB. 


leaped to his feet, uttering a terrible cry. At this cry, 
Madame de Chateau! or t stopped, pale and mute; a pro- 
found terror was depicted upon her countenance. The eyes 
of the dying man and hers were fixed steadily upon each 
other. As he leaned toward her, the arms of the duchess 
moved in an agitated manner. Monsieur d’Assonville 
made three steps forward, raised his hands to heaven and 
fell. Belle-Rose rushed to him. He was dead. Madame de 
Chateaufort knelt down. The frightened gaze of Belle-Rose 
went from the dead body to Genevieve ; a horrible thought 
chilled his heart, and his glance seemed to ask his sweet- 
heart to account for the death of his friend. 

“Assassinated!” said he. 

“Oh! ’tis not I who am responsible for it!” exclaimed 
Madame de Chateaufort. 

And with hands joined, bathed in tears, she tried to 
crawl upon her knees; hut, overcome by fright, she sank 
down, and her head struck the carpet. Belle-Rose went 
out, tottering like a drunken man; a horrible thought trou- 
bled his soul. Passing through the court, the waiting wo- 
man, impatient at that long silence, questioned him as to 
^what was taking place in the pavilion. 

“What was Madame de Chateaufort’s maiden name?” 
Belle-Rose asked her, in a choking voice. 

“Mademoiselle de La None, ” replied Camille, and she 
entered the pavilion. 


CHAPTER XV. 

A STEP TOWARD THE TOMB. 

Camille, on entering the pavilion, found Madame de 
Chateaufort fainting near the dead body of Monsieur d’As- 
sonville, whom she recognized at the first glance. She un- 
derstood clearly then the question of Belle-Rose ; hut with- 
out stopping to calculate the import of it, she called, and 
some lackeys aided her to transport their mistress into her 
apartment. The events which had resulted from tliis catas- 
trophe had succeeded each other so suddenly that Madame 
de Chateaufort could not resist their impetuosity. This 
strong and energetic woman seemed overwhelmed by a 
single stroke. She remained for several hours rigid and 
cold ; life was betrayed only by the tears which fell from 
her half-closed eyes and by the trembling of her face, 
where was reflected all the anguish of terror and despair. 


A STEP TOWARD THE TOMB. 


lor 

Madame de Chateaiifort had arrived in the afternoon at 
her Paris hotel, and had only taken time to change her 
clothing before going in a fiacre to the house in the Kne 
Cassette. Monsieur d’Assonville had presented himself 
there the evening before and the same day. Madame de 
Chateaufort sent to his home and learned that he had gone . 
out ; but, upon being advised that he would probably re- 
turn during the evening, she asked the lackey to inform 
him that he was expected in the Rue Cassette. Unfortu- 
nately Monsieur d’Assonville having, on his part, gone to 
Madame de Chateaufort ’s hotel, a few moments before the 
duchess’ arrival at Paris, he was informed by a valet that 
she intended to prolong her sojourn in the country. He 
decided immediately as to what he should do ; he knew 
the park and its secret issues, the passages which led to 
the duchess’ apartments, and, thoroughly convinced by 
her silence that she was firmly decided to avoid every 
interview, he wished to penetrate to her room at night, 
even should he perish in the attempt. Just as Madame de 
Chateaufort entered Paris, Monsieur d’Assonville left it. 
When he perceived Ecouen, he stopped and waited for 
night, not wishing to present himself before the chateau 
gate, thinking that he would be refused admittance. 
When twilight came lie gained the walls of the park; con- 
cealed himself in a thicket, and when darkness prevailed 
everywhere, he sought the secret door at the angle of the 
w’all where, in happier times, the light feet of a woman 
had so often accompanied him. He found it open and ad- 
vanced rapidly through the park. But Monsieur de Ville- 
brais, who was seeking Belle-Rose, seeing a man coming 
down the avenue which led to the chateau, threw himself 
upon him, thinking that it was his rival. “Defend your- 
self, scoundrel !” he cried to him. Monsieur d’Assonville 
had scarcely time to draw his sword before a thrust 
pierced his breast ; enfeebled by a recent wound, he could 
not oppose a long resistance to the attacks of his assassin, 
and fell just as Belle-Rose was coming to his aid. While 
these things were taking place at the chateau, Madame de 
Chateaufort was waiting, filled with a feverish impa- 
tience, in the house in the Rue Cassette. The hours suc- 
ceeded each other without Monsieur d’Assonville appear- 
ing. About midnight she again sent to the captain’s lodg- 
ings. News came back that Monsieur d’Assonville’s valet 
had returned after having quitted his master upon the 
route to St. Denis. Madame de Chateaufort did not say a 
word, but Camille understood to what anguish she was a 


108 


A STEP TOWARD THE TOMB. 

prey, by the look which her mistress threw her. A mo^ 
ment after, both mounted a carriage and hurriedly took 
the road to Ecouen. The rest is known. Belle-Rose wan- 
dered about till morning, struggling with all his soul 
against madness and despair. Monsieur d’Assonville was 
dead, and she whom Monsieur d’Assonville loved was his 
mistress. Belle-Rose reproached himself with the death of 
the captain, and remorse entered his soul along with grief. 
The freshness of the dawn calmed his agitation ; a duty 
was left him to fulfill, the voice of honor prevailed, in the 
tumult of his thoughts, and he heard its voice.' Belle-Rose 
bid adieu for the last time to the inanimate body of his 
protector, wrote some lines which he addressed to Madame 
de Chateaufort, also two notes which he sent to Cornelius 
and Claudine, to inform them of his departure and his res- 
olution to go to see Monsieur de Naucrais, saddled a horse 
and left the chateau at a gallop. The duchess had scarcely 
awoke from her long fainting, when she heard the park 
gate roll upon its hinges and the shoes of a horse striking 
the pebbles. She hastily arose, and at a bound reached the 
balcony ; a cloud of dust was whirling along the road. She 
saw Belle-Rose diusappear under the white, winding sheet, 
and her heart repeated his name. 

The next moment a lackey presented himself, letter in 
hand. 

Madame de Chateaufort took this letter, and, falling 
upon a sofa, made a sign to the lackey to retire. She broke 
the seal, and with eyes full of tears read : 

“Madame: — You have deprived me of the right of avenging Mon- 
sieur d’Assonville, but I recommend to you his mortal remains ; give 
to his body the repose which you have refused to his heart. Mon- 
sieur d’Assonville has charged me with a sacred mission. What he 
wished, I shall wish; so act that I may never be forced to hate you. 

“Belle-Rose.” 

Madame de Chateaufort threw herself back pale and in- 
animate. She no longer had either voice to complain or 
tears to weep ; a burning fever devoured her. In the mean- 
time Belle-Rose, leaving his horse at the first relay, took a 
post-horse and arrived the next day at Cambria, where 
Monsieur de Naucrais’ regiment then was. Monsieur de 
Naucrais was working in his room when Belle-Rose pre- 
sented himself before the soldier on guard. At the sound 
of his voice. Monsieur de Naucrais leaped from his chair 
and ran himself to open the door; scarcely had Belle-Rose 
passed it, when his captain repulsed him violently. 


A STEP TOWABD THE TOMB. 


109 


You come when you are no longer expected,” he ex- 
claimed; ‘‘but you must have thought that it was never 
too late to get yourself hung.” 

‘‘I shall be judged, Monsieur le Vicomte, but that is not 
the only motive which brings me.” 

‘‘Par bleu! it is the only one which will retain you! If 
3^ou no longer recollect the odor of powder, you will be 
made to smell it close enough to no longer forget it. ’ ’ 

‘‘Permit me to believe that the thing is not yet done.” 

‘‘Eh! morbleu! you have taken care to arrange things 
so as to avoid all uncertaint}’’. You give my lieutenant a 
sword thrust, and afterward desert. But it does not re- 
quire half that to get a man shot. Could you not stay 
where you were?” 

“I have staid there too long.” 

“Then you should have staid there always. The idea 
of being an honest man takes you a little late.” 

“Captain!” 

• “Are you going to get vexed now?” 

“I surrender — is it not enough?” 

“It is too much, morbleu! Since you had enough of the 
soldier’s trade, you should have remained a deserter. 
What the devil do ycai wish me to say to Monsieur d’As- 
sonville, my brother, -when he learns that I have had you 
shot?” 

At Monsieur d’Assonville’s name, Belle-Rose stifled a 
sigh. 

“Ah! you sigh!” resumed Monsieur de Naucrais, who 
was walking the room, masking under the appearance of 
anger the interest he felt in Belle-Rose. “Monsieur de Vil- 
lebrais, they say, is a bad man; but he is your officer. Still 
if you had gone to get yourself massacred elsewhere, I 
should have washed my hands of it. ’ ’ 

“Monsieur le Vicomte,” said Belle-Rose, “it will be as 
God sees fit; but permit me to dismiss this subject. I have 
other duties to fulfil.” 

“Other duties! Are you mad? You have none other than 
to go to prison.” 

“I will go presently; but tell me, I pray you, if you 
have not a package of Monsieur d’Assonville to hand me.” 

“Parbleu! I had forgotten it. Here it is. If my brother 
charges you with some commission, he chooses well his 
time. He is in Paris now, I imagine; have you seen* him? 
how is he?” 

At this question, Belle-Rose grew pale. 

“Do you hear me?” said Monsieur de Naucrais. “Oh, if 


ilO A STEP TOWARD THE TOMB. 

you do not wish to speak,” he added, on seeing the hesi- 
tation of Belle-Hose, “keep your secret. My brother has 
always been the most mysterious man in the world ; he 
has a multitude of obscure alfairs of which I have never 
understood anything. If they are yours also — carry them 
out together. ” 

“Alas! Monsieur d’Assonville will have them no more!” 
said Belle-Rose, sadly. 

Monsieur de Naucrais stopped himself short. 

“What did you say?” he exclaimed. 

“Monsieur d’Assonville is dead,” replied the soldier. 

“Dead!” repeated the captain, and he leaned against the 
mantel. His legs trembled under him. 

Belle-Rose related to him the details of the tragic events 
of ’which he had been a witness, suppressing, however, 
the particulars which concerned him personally, as well 
as Madame de Chateaufort. Monsieur de Naucrais listened 
to him with eyes fixed on his. Each word of this funereal 
narrative reached his heart ; but he struggled with all his 
strength against the emotion which seized him. 

“Yes,” said he, after Belle-Rpse had ceased speaking, 
“that is the way it must have been. My brother was kind, 
brave, loyal, and frank, the other is a debauched wretch ; 
they have met — my brother is dead ; -thus goes the world. 
The coward triumphs where the brave man succumbs. 
Poor Gaston! to what he might not have arrived! But 
he loved. A woman has placed herself between him and 
the marshal ’s baton, and this woman has made him stum- 
ble. May God curse her, the infamous creature!” 

Monsieur de Naucrais, paler than a corpse, raised both 
his hands to heaven with a frightful expression of hatred 
and fury. Belle-Rose shivered from head to foot. 

“Oh! if he were still living,” continued the captain, 
“with this hand I would snatch from my brother’s heart 
the memory of that love, even if it resulted in his death. 
But he is dead, my poor brother! You do not know how 
rough and severe I was with him ; but I loved him as a 
father loves his child.” 

Conquered this time bj’’ grief, the captain fell upon a 
fauteuil and concealed his head between his hands. He 
was weeping. Belle- Rose softly approached and took him 
by the hand. The captain answered this movement by a 
jDressure of the hand. 

All at once Monsieur de Naucrais arose. 

“Enough tears,” said he. “A thousand sobs would not 
give my brother one hour of life. It is a question of you 


A STEP TOWAKD THE TOMB. 


Ill 


now. Yon are a brave and honest soldier, and Monsieur 
de Viliebrais is a wretched officer who has more pride than 
courage. Yon have strnck him, and yon have done well. 
Yon had right and justice on yonr side. Nevertheless yon 
will be shot. Discipline requires it, and discipline mnst be 
obeyed. Give me yonr hand and go to yonr dungeon. ” 

Monsienr de Nancrais rang. Corporal Deronte appeared. 
Monsieur de Nancrais exchanged a last look with Belle- 
Rose and tnrned qnicklj^ from him. He was no longer the 
friend — he was the officer. 

“Corporal, ” said he to Deronte, “here is the deserter 
Belle-Rose whom I confide to yon. Take him to the dnn- 
geon and return to get my order for the convocation of 
the conrt-martial. Go.” 

Deronte carried his hand to his hat and went ont. No 
sooner had they .passed the door, when the corporal threw 
himself npon the sergeant’s neck. 

“Death of my life! yon have had a ridicnlons idea,” said 
Deronte, “bnt patience, all is not finished.” 

“There are three or fonr daj^s left, I believe.” 

“Between the evening before and the next day, there is 
room for a project. ’ ’ 

“What do yon mean?” 

“We have not the leisnre to talk in this corridor. I 
mnst first place 3^011 in the dungeon. Afterward I go to 
the captain, and if I obtain his permission to command 
the men on gnard, I am content.” 

“Ask him on my part, and he will consent.” 

“Parblen, I was thinking of that. Let ns march qnicklj^; 
we will have time to talk after. ” 

In five minutes the dnngeon door was closed npon him. 

“Sit down,” said Deronte. “I go and retnrn. ” 

The dnngeon was a low hall adjoining the barrack of the 
artillery men. The windows were furnished with great 
iron bars. Belle-Rose paced to and fro. One of the win- 
dows gave npon the beat, where a soldier was promenad- 
ing, witlya mnsket on his shonlder. As Belle-Rose looked 
ont he perceived Deronte approaching with rapid strides. 

“Well, I come from the caiDtain. Eh! he has done things 
well,” and Deronte entered, 

“Really!” 

“Through friendship for yon, and in order to shorten 
yonr stay in the dnngeon, he advances the judgment and 
execution. We spoke of fonr days — yon will be shot in 
forty-eight hours.” 


112 


THE EVE OF THE LAST DAY. 


CHAPTER XVI. 

THE EVE OF THE LAST DAY. 

At the corporal’s words, Belle-JRose looked at the plain 
which was radiant with the splendor of a beautiful day. 
The corj^oral observed this look. 

“That is to say you will be shot in forty-eight hours if I 
wish it,” he added. 

“Has the presidency of the councils of war fallen to 
you?” asked Belle-Rose, languidly. 

“I command the place, and it shall not be said that I 
have done nothing to save you from their muskets. I have' 
my project, and I intend to execute it.” 

Belle-Rose, astonished, turned to the corporal who, ^ 
while talking, had just bolted the door. 

“Two precautions are better than one,” continued 
Deroute Let us close the door and talk low. Here is a 
chair; sit down, and above all listen to me well.” 

The corporal sat down beside the sergeant and continued j 
in these terms: 1 

“Monsieur de Naucrais has placed me in command of 
the guard. That is what I wished. The court-martial as 
sembles to-morrow morning ; you will be condemned to- 
morrow evening, and after the promulgation of the sen- 
tence, you will be taken to the dungeon of the provost 
guard, where you will be confided to the hands of the 
provost of the company, and the next day at noon, in thel 
presence of the whole garrison, you will be shot. " 

“I thank you for these details, my friend; they interest i 
me much,” said Belle-Rose. 

“Listen to the end; the rest will interest you more. If 1/ 
waited till the provost closed the door of his dungeon 
ux)on you, you understand that the intervention of Cor- 
poral Deroute would not be very useful to you ; those in 
the care of the provost do not escape. But between this 
honest prison in which we aro talking and his cursed dun- 
geon, there are twenty-four hours. It is more time than I 
need to effect your escape.” 

Belle-Rose bounded in his chair. 

“Escape!” lie exclaimed. 

“Undoubtedly! Do you think, tfien, that Corporal 
Deroute is one of those who forget their friends? I love 
you and will save you. ’ ’ 


THE EVE OF THE LAST DAY. 


113 


“And you will get yourself shot.” 

“What difference does that make to you, if it suits me? 
But they will not hold me since I decamp at the same time 
as you.” 

“You, too?” • 

“Certainly. My project is a fine one, as you can judge 
for yourself. The men who are to compose the night watch 
all belong to our squad; they are good comrades who 
would face the devil for you. When they have assembled, 
I shall range them in a circle and will say to them some- 
thing like this: ‘Children, there is a brave sergeant inside 
who has often given us ten hours’ leave when we merited 
the lock-up ’ ‘It is true,’ they will reply. ‘Certainly it is 
true,’ I will then make answer ‘therefore, comrades, each 
one must have his turn ; he has sent us to walk, give him 
some air. You will go to sleep, I will open the door, 3^011 
will see nothing, and he will go away. It is your corporal 
who orders you. Go to bed.’” 

“And you believe that they will sleep?” 

“That is to say they will place their fists over their eyes 
and their thumbs in their ears; I know them. Five min- 
utes after, we will fiee like partridges through the fields. 
What do you think of the project?” 

“It is charming; I only see one difficulty about it.” 

“What is it?” 

“The difficulty is that it does not please me to escape.” 

It was the corporal’s turn to bound in his chair. 

“It does not please you? Come, you are joking.” 

“No, I speak seriously; it is my idea.” 

“Well ! if it suits you to remain, it suits me to open the 
door.” 

“Then you will leave alone.” 

“No, I will wait.” 

“But you will be arrested at daybreak.” 

“I counted on that.” 

“And you will be shot.” 

“I agree with you there.” 

“Go to the devil;” 

“I prefer to remain here.” 

Belle-Eose left his seat and made some turns in the 
prison. Deroute, leaning back in his chair, pi aj^ed with 
his thumbs. The sergeant stopped before that honest face 
which was at the same time resolute. 

“My friend,” he said to him, taking him by the hand, 
“what you wish to do is madness,” 

“Not more than what you do not wish to do.” 


lU 


THE EVE OF THE LAST DAY. 


“Your mind is made up, then?” 

“Perfectly. I was a groom, lam a corporal, I will be 
dead — that is all. ” 

“But, supposing I accept, have you reflected on the diffi- 
culties of your project?” 

“Bless me! if one thought of everything, one would 
never attempt anything.” 

“There is the sentinel making the round.” 

“It is a risk to run.” 

“The patrol who go and come around the ramparts.” 

“It is their tratie to see people, it will be ours to avoid 
them.” 

“We shall be overtaken before we gain the frontier.” 

“At the mercy of God!” 

Belle-Kose stamped. The corporal continued to twirl his 
Angers. 

“After all, do what you wish,” exclaimed the sergeant; 
“if you are shot, it will be your own fault.” 

“Agreed,” said Deroute, and he rose to go. 

The day was over, and the dinner hour had come. The 
corporal went out to fulfil the duties of his charge. He 
had to watch at the same time over the mess and over his 
prisoner. He had scarcely passed the door, when Belle- 
Rose, drawing a pencil from his pocket, hastily wrote 
some words upon a slip of paper. When he had finished, 
he approached the window which gave upon the yard ; a 
sapper was close by. 

“Do you wish to render me a service, comrade?” Belle- 
Rose said to him. 

“If the instructions permit me, willingly.” 

“Then take this letter and carry it immediately to Mon- 
sieur de Naucrais. If he is not at home, search for him 
till you have found him, and do not return without hav- 
ing placed it in his own hands.” 

“It is pressing, then?” 

“Somewhat. It concerns a man’s life. ” 

“I shall run, then.” 

Monsieur de Naucrais, entirely wrapped up in the grief 
caused by his brother’s death, had given orders that he 
should not be disturbed; but at the name of Belle-Rose he 
had the sapper introduced and * took the letter. It only 
contained these lines : 

‘‘Captain : — If yon were not Monsieur de Naucrais, I should say 
nothing to you of what has passed between Corporal Deroute and 
myself; but in confiding to you this secret, I am sure that instead of 


THE EVE OF THE LAST DAY. 


115 


pnnishing him, you will prevent my poor comrade from destroying 
himself. Deroike counts on assisting me to escape to-night. I 
have vainly attempted to dissuade him, he persists, and exposes him- 
self to be shot to save me. I no longer cling to life, and whatever he 
may do, I am resolved to submit to my fate, but I do not wish to 
make him share it. He is an honest man, whom I should regret 
much to see die. Protect him against himself. Belle-Kose.” 

Monsieur de Naucrais crumpled up the letter. 

“ Say to Belle-Rose that I will do what he asks,” said 
he to the sapper, who left the room. 

“He has a true soldier’s heart!” exclaimed Monsieur de 
Naucrais, when he^ was alone ; “my brother and he, one 
after the other. Only the good die.” 

And the captain, exasperated, broke with his fist a little 
table against which he was leaning. 

An hour after the sapper’s return, Belle-Rose saw Cor- 
poral Deroute enter his prison. The poor corporal wore a 
frightened countenance. 

“We are betrayed!” said he, falling upon a chair. 

“Really!” replied Belle-Rose, affecting a great surprise. 

“The captain has learned everything. Some mischiev- 
ous artiller3unan must have heard us. I was swallowing 
my soup when a cannoneer came on the part of the ca]itain 
to order me to instantly appear before him. I go. Scarcely 
are we alone, when Monsieur de Naucrais makes me a sign 
to approach. ‘I iinow all,’ he said to me. At these words 
I grow troubled and stammer a reply of which I under- 
stood nothing myself. ‘Peace,’ he continues. ‘I have no 
proofs, you will not appear then before a council of war; 
but to deprive you of any desire to begin again, I send 
you to the lock-up. You will remain there three days. If 
you were not a good soldier, I would make you taste the 
sprouts. Take this and march. ’ I leave thoroughly stupe- 
fied and find outside three cannoneers who bring me back 
here. During the route, I examine what the captain had 
placed in my hand. It was a purse, in which I have 
counted a dozen louis. The lock-up and gold, all at the 
same time — I did not understand it. The sergeant who has 
replaced me in command of the post has permitted me to 
enter a moment. What an adventure!” 

“You need not grieve — we would not have succeeded.” 

“Bah! the night is black, and we have good legs.” 

“I prefer to see you in prison. You risked your life and 
I do not cling to mine.” 

“This evening, it is possible; but to-morrow! Hold, I 
will never console myself for it.” 


116 THE EVE OF THE LAST DAY. 

The l)utt-end of a musket striking the door interrupted 
him. 

“They are recalling me, ” said Deroute. “Already!” 

He arose and made two turns about the room. A second 
blow from the butt-end of the musket warned him to make 
haste. 

“Good!” he exclaimed, “my three cannoneers are afraid 
of catching a cold! Adieu, sergeant.” 

“Do you wish to embrace me, my friend?” 

“Do I wish it? I did not dare to ask it of you. ” 

Deroute threw himself upon Belle-Rose’s neck and held 
him in his arms for a long time. 

A third knock at the door was heard. Deroute ran to it, 
opened it quickly, and disappeared. He was stifling. When 
Belle-Rose no longer heard the noise of the cadenced steps 
of the little escort, he drew from his pocket Monsieur 
d’Assonville*s folded paper and read the contents of it. It 
was a sort of will by which the young captain appointed 
Belle-Rose his executor by revealing to him the existence 
of a child which he had had by Mademoiselle de La None 
before her marriage with the Due de ChMeaufort. This 
child had disappeared, and Monsieur d’Assonville charged 
Belle-Rose with getting possession of it, at the same time 
turning over to him the divers papers which might aid 
him in his researches. Belle-Rose was obliged to inter- 
rupt this reading at least ten times. Burning tears fur- 
rowed his cheeks. He felt his life escaping through the 
wounds in his heart. The name of Genevieve — that name 
filled with horror and intoxication — returned unceasingly 
to his lips mixed with that of Monsieur d’Assonville, and 
to escape the disorder of his thoughts, the recollection of 
Suzanne was the only exile in which his riven soul could 
take refuge. But was not Suzanne also lost to him ! On all 
sides were hopes destroyed. The flowers of his youth had 
scarcely opened to the light before they were withered, 
and in his short life, which musket balls were so soon go • 
ing to finish, he saw nothing except mournful griefs and 
sterile struggles. 

“The will of God be done!” said he, and throwing him- 
self upon his knees, he prayed. 

When the first rays of dawn lit up the pale hill-sides^ 
Belle-Rose was still writing. Before him were some letters 
addressed to Madame d’Albergotti, to Claudine, to his 
father, to Cornelius O’Brien, to Madame de Chateaufort, 
and to Monsieur de Naucrais. More calm, he threw him- 
self upon the camp-bed while waiting the hour for the 


THE EVE OE THE LAST DAY. 


11 ? 


court-martial. At nine o'clock in the morning a squad of 
sappers appeared a-t the door of the dungeon. An officer 
appeared upon the threshold, sword in hand, and made a 
sign to Belle-Rose to advance. Five minutes after, he en- 
tered the hall of the court-martial, which was presided 
over by the major of the regiment. Monsieur de Naucrais 
was seated to the right of the major. His face appeared 
calm ; only it was very pale. Before a table, opposite the 
major, a clerk was to be seen. The squad ranged tlrem- 
selves in front of the tribunal, and Belle-Rose remained 
standing slightly in front. The hall was filled with curi- 
osity seekers, among which were to be remarked a large 
number of soldiers. On the arrival of the sergeant, a great 
commotion took place in this crowd ; a deep silence soon 
succeeded it. The clerk first read the accusation, which 
declared that Sergeant Belle-Rose, after having grievously 
wounded his lieutenant, had rendered himself guilty of 
the crime of desertion. After this reading, the major 
passed to the questioning of the prisoner. 

“Your name?” said he. 

“Jacques Grinedal,” said Belle-Rose, “sergeant in the 
company^of Monsieur de Naucrais. ” 

At his name, Monsieur de Naucrais trembled, and dur- 
ing the rest of the questioning remained with head bowed. 
“Your age?” continued the president. 

“Twenty-three. ” 

After the clerk had recorded these divers responses in 
the proces-verhal, Belle-Rose was asked if he had not 
wounded his lieutenant. Monsieur le Chevalier de Ville- 
brais, somewdiere close to Neuilly. Belle-Rose answered 
this question affirmatively; but in justification of his 
honor as a soldier, he begged the tribunal to hear him, 
and, upon the authorization of the major, he related the 
scene which had resulted in the duel. This declaration 
was listened to in profound silence. A murmur traversed 
the assembly. The crowd absolved the soldier. 

The major picked up a package of papers. 

“The confessions of the accused,” said he, “are in con- 
formity with the written and signed declarations sent us 
from Paris; one comes from the coachman who drove 
the sergeant and his sister ; the other is from an Irish 
gentleman, Cornelius O’Brien, who witnessed the com- 
bat. They have not been contradicted by Monsieur de Vil- 
lebrais, to whom they have been transmitted and whose 
absence we regret at this moment.” 

After the hearing of these facts, the court-martial, con- 


118 


THE EVE OF THE LAST DAY. 


sidering the action of Belle-Rose as a case of legitimate 
defense, dismissed the accusation of a criminal attempt 
.•‘gainst the person of an officer. The crime of desertion 
alone remained for consideration. 

“After your duel with Lieutenant Villebrais, why did 
you not return to Laon, where your company then was?’* 
said the major. 

“That was my first intention, but an accident prevented 
me. ” 

“A wound, perhaps?” 

“Yes, major.” 

“But you might have written and set out after your 
cure. ’ ’ 

“That is true.” 

“By remaining where you were, do you know that you 
rendered yourself guilty of the crime of desertion?” 

“I know it and recognize myself as guilty.” 

“Have you some explanations to give as to the causes of 
your absence?” 

Belle-Rose shook his head. The major exchanged some 
words with the members of the court-martial, and, turn- 
ing to Belle-Rose, asked him if he had anything to add in 
his defense. Upon his negative reply, he ordered him to 
be taken back to prison. The squad of infantry went out 
with the accused, the hall was vacated, and the court en- 
tered on its deliberations. 

Toward evening the sergeant of the guard opened the 
prison door. 

“Rise, comrade, and follow me,” he sai(L 

“Where do you take me?” asked Belle-Rose. 

“Bless me! to a place where one goes but once.” 

“To the dungeon of the provost guard?” 

The sergeant bowed. 

“Well,” continued Belle-Rose, “I understand.” 

He was placed betw^een four cannoneers and taken to 
the dungeon, which was not in the same building. It was 
a small, narrow, vaulted room which received its light 
through two dormer-windows provided with strong iron 
bars. A pallet was in one corner, a bench against the wall, 
and a wooden Christ on the door. It was a somber, cold, 
and humid place, something like the antechamber of a 
sepulcher. The provost of the regiment received Belle- 
Rose and placed his name upon the dungeon register. A 
moment after the adjutant and clerk entered. The clerk 
held a paper in his hand. Belle-Rose uncovered himself, 


A WOMAN’S HAND. 


110 


and the sentiioels presented arms. FlambeaiixAvere lit, and 
the clerk read the judgment of the court-martial. 

“What is the hour set for execution?” asked Belle-Eose. 

“To-morrow morning, at eleven o’clock.” 

“I will be ready, monsieur.” 

“If you are of our holy religion, does it please you to 
have a confessor?” 

“I was just going to ask you to procure me one.” 

The clerk made a sign to the provost, who went out and 
came back at the end of ten minutes with a priest. Every- 
body withdrew, and when the door was closed, Belle- 
Bose remained alone with the man of God. 


CHAPTER XVII. 

A woman’s hand. 

The next day at ten o’clock the provost entered the dun- 
geon. Belle-Bose was sleeping upon the jDallet, after a 
night passed in pious exhortations, fatigue of body hav- 
ing triumphed over anguish of mind. The priest was pray- 
ing, kneeling under the image of Christ. The provost 
struck the condemned man upon the shoulder. 

“Stand, sergeant, ” said he, “the hour has come.” 

Belle-Rose obeyed at once. The j)riest advanced to- 
ward him. — 

“My father, pardon me my faults,” the soldier said to 
him, falling upon his knees. 

The priest raised his hands to heaven. 

“Condemned by men, I absolve you before God, ” said 
he; “you have suffered, go in peace.” 

And with his finger he traced the sign of the cross upon 
the prisoner’s forehead. Then the priest and soldier em- 
braced each other. Belle- Rose still wore the clothing given 
him by Madame de Chateaufort. He took off his justan- 
corps, and asked the provost to permit him to make a pres- 
ent of it to the jailer ; as to the money which he carried 
in his belt, he turned it over to him for distribution among 
the soldiers who were serving as guards. 

“I except five louis, ” said he, “which I give to the 
fusileers; I owe them something for their trouble.” 

A lieutenant in full uniform appeared upon the threshold 
of the door. 

“Sergeant Belle-Rose, forward!” said he. 


120 


A WOMAN’S HAND. 


Twenty cannoneers were waiting for the condemned. All 
were mournful, and all lowered their eyes when Belle- 
Eose appeared, accompanied by the priest who kept on 
the right side of him. The lieutenant himself appeared 
touched and bit his mustache. Belle-Rose saluted the offi- 
cer first, then the soldiers, whose ranks opened to receive 
him. The signal was given, and the troop took up its 
march. The sergeant wore a vest of white moire with 
golden net-work which contracted his waist and enhanced 
his good looks ; his head was bare, and his hair, which he 
wore very long, hung in curls around his neck. Half of 
the company was drawn up outside of the barrack of the 
cannoneers, under the orders of the first lieutenant. It 
ranged itself in line and took up the way to the ramparts. 
A profound silence reigned in the ranks. From time to 
time, a soldier coughed and carried his hand to his eyes. 
Belle-Rose smiled at his comrades. The streets through 
■which the cortege advanced were full of people ; they were 
to be seen everywhere — along the houses, before the 
doors, at the windows, upon the shop-steps. All eyes 
sought the condemned man, a thousand exclamations 
came from the midst of the crowd, pity was to be read 
upon every face. Belle-Rose w^alked with a steady gait, and 
his face was calm and proud ; a melancholy smile hovered 
around his mouth. At the turn of the street the priest pointed 
to the sky ; the soldier raised his eyes. The procession ad- 
vanced slowTy in the midst of the crowd which swelled 
each minute. It reached the city gate and took its way 
toward a drilling field, where a thousand or twelve hun 
dred men were drawn up in line of battle Monsieur de 
Naucrais was on horseback at the head of his company. 
The arms sparkled in the sun, and the whole population 
of Cambrai covered the ramparts and the approaches of 
the drilling field. When the procession appeared outside 
the gates, the drums beat, the officers drew their swords, 
and the troop shouldered arms. Belle-Rose raised his fore- 
head, bowed for a moment under the weight of recollec- 
tions, and threw a firm glance at the ranks of the soldiers. 
Just as his escort entered the fatal inclosure, a confused 
noise rose up from the midst of the crowd, a thousand 
heads were agitated, and distant cries were heard. The 
crowd w’hich came from Cambrai rushed forward, and 
its waves beat against the detachment in charge of Belle- 
Rose. 

“Pardon! jDardon!” the crowd cried, and this word alone 
rose above the tumult. 


A WOMAN‘S HAND. 


121 


Believing that the crowd wished to deliver the prisoner 
by violence, the lieuienant in command of the escort gave 
orders to close the ranks and make ready arms. But at 
the moment the order was being executed a man on horse- 
back was seen to rush through the city gate. The man was 
covered with mud and dust, the horse was panting, and 
its flanks, white with foam, were stained with droj)s of 
blood. The cavalier, no longer having a voice to cry out, 
brandished in the air a paper sealed with red w’ax. The 
crowed made \vay for him with a thousand cries of joy, 
and the cavalier came up at a gallop, as Monsieur de Nau- 
crais Tvas running, sword in hand, toward the cortege 
■whose ranks opened. The horse passed like a thunderbolt 
and fell at the major’s feet ; but the cavalier was already 
on his feet, and presenting the paper stamped with the 
royal seal. The officers grouped themselves around the 
•major; the crowd was silent, and a thousand soldiers, for- 
getting discipline, inclined their heads forward. They 
could hear nothing, but they listened. Disorder prevailed 
everywhere. All at once the circle of officers was broken, 
and Monsieur de Naucrais, holding the paper in one hand 
and his hat in the other, rode away at a headlong pace. 
His countenance, so mournful an hour before, was radiant. 
He waved his hat in the air, and in a thundering voice 
cried, “ Vive le roiP’* It was not yet known of what it w^as 
a question, and all the soldiers and all the people re- 
sponded at the same time, and the cry of, “ Vive le roir' 
rolled like a clap of thunder from the ramparts to the 
plains beyond. Then all was silent. You might have heard 
the lark singing in the depths of the sky. Monsieur de 
Naucrais raised himself in his stirrups. 

“Sergeant Belle-Rose, approach!” he exclaimed. 

Belle-Rose advanced ten steps. 

“Jacques Grinedal, otherwise known as Belle-Rose, ser- 
geant in the company of cannoneers,” continued Monsieur 
de Naucrais, “the king, our master, acquits you and dis- 
charges you from the penalty of death which you have in- 
curred through the crime of desertion, and permits you to 
resume the dress and insignia of your grade. Therefore 
be it done according to his will. Vive le roiP' 
i The whole troop repeated this cry, at the same time 
[placing their hats upon the ends of their guns, and the 
crowd clapped their hands with transports of joy. Belle- 
Rose could have been pardoned for thinking himself an 
important personage. The youth, good looks, and courage 
of the condemned, had for an hour transformed him into 


m 


A WOMAN’S HAND. 


a hero. Dead, he ■would have been forgotten next day; 
living, the crowd was carried away by enthusiasm. But 
Belle-Rose thought of nothing. What he had just heard 
appeared to him a dream. Monsieur de Naucrais did not 
think this a time for hiding his satisfaction. In the presence 
of the whole garrison he embraced the sergeant, who was 
touched more by this demonstration of affection than by 
all the tumult of which he was the object. At this mo- 
ment, the cavalier who had brought the glad news ap- 
proached Belle-Rose, and taking him by the sleeve, softly 
said to him : 

“And will you not embrace me, too?” 

Belle-Rose turned round and found himself in the arms 
of Cornelius O’Brien. 

Half an hour after the scene which we have just re- 
lated, Belle-Rose, Cornelius O’Brien, and Monsieur de 
Naucrais were gathered together in the captain’s room. 

“You undoubtedly have some things to say to each 
other,” said Monsieur de Naucrais to the two friends; 
“Belle-Rose has well earned for to-day a ten-hours’ leave, 
so remain together and dine at ;^our ease, here or else- 
where, as you prefer. Some papers have just arrived from 
Paris which I must examine.” 

The death which he had seen so close, rendered life more 
sweet to Belle-Rose. If the same causes for grief subsisted, 
the voluntary gift which he had made of his young exist- 
ence seemed to him a sufficient sacrifice, and despair no 
longer had the right to ask anything of him. The sacrifice 
had been offered, fate had refused him, so they were 
quits. Oftentimes it so happens that even the sincerest 
souls make such compromises as these, which explains 
things apparently inexplicabl-e. The sergeant, miracu- 
lously saved, did not perceive, the transformation which 
was taking place in him ; but at sight of Cornelius, who 
was extending his hand to him across the table, he took a 
glass of Spanish wine, swallowed it at a draught, and, 
with his heart bounding jo3ffully, he understood that 
there was still room in the future for youth, hope, and 
love. 

“I owe 3^ou my life, then!” exclaimed Belle-Rose, 
pressing the hand of the Irish gentleman. “One day my 
honor, the next day my head ; if you keep on in this fash- 
ion, how shall I repay you?” 

“It will be more easy to do than you think, ” replied 
Cornelius. 

“Speak quickly!' 


A WOMAN’S HAND. 


123 


‘‘Presently will be time enough. If you consent at once, 
I should be too much your debtor. Besides you only owe 
me the half of the debt of ’which you just now spoke.” 

“Only the half?” 

‘'Eh! undoubtedly ! That parchment which saved you 
from the balls I brought, but did not obtain.” 

“What! it is not you ” 

“Eh! my God, no.” 

“But who, then?” 

“Parbleu! some one who seems to love you madly.” 

Belle-Rose blushed. 

“You understand,” continued Cornelius. 

“No, really, lam seeking ” 

“If you seek, ’tis that you have found, /s it necessary 
to name to you madame ” 

“Marquise d’Albergotti.” 

“No — the Duchess de Chateaufort. ” 

At this name Belle-Rose trembled. 

“Had it not been for her, you would now be dead!” con- 
tinued Cornelius. “What gratitude do you not ewe her? 
How much she has done to save you !” 

The name of Madame de ^Chateaufort had agitated Belle- 
Rose’s mind. He bowed his head and remained silent. 

“It is a curious story,” said Cornelius. “Where men are 
powerless, women succeed. I know of po better pass-key 
than a woman’s w^hite hand; it opens at the same time 
consciences and locks. When your letter reached Paris, 
where I remained .without well knowing why,” continued 
the Irishman, blushing a little, “it plunged me into a 
great em harassment. What to do and where to go? I be- 
gan by running to the country to see your sister. Made- 
moiselle Claudin© ” 

“Ah!” said Belle-Rose, w^ho did not fail to remark tha 
gentleman’s emotion on pronouncing this-name. 

“Yes; she is a young lady who has more sense than her 
gay eyes and sly smile would indicate. I expected good ad- 
vice from her and found her in tears ; she had, like my- 
self, received a note in which you revealed your intention 
of presenting yourself before the court-martial at Cam- 
brai. She would have addressed herself to Madame d’Al- 
bergotti; unfortunately this lady’s husband was at Com- 
piegne, and you would have had ten chances to be shot 
before his intervention could be of any service. Not know- 
ing what to decide upon, I took at hazard the way to Mon- 
sieur de Louvois’ liotel. I passed under the porte cochere, I 
mounted a stair- way, and entered a hall where several per- 


124 


A WOMAN’S HAND. 


sons were gathered together. A door was in front of me, 
I was going straight on, when an usher intercepted me. 
‘What do you desire?’ he said to me. At these words, I 
took a desperate resolution. ‘Can I not speak to His Ex- 
cellency the Minister?’ I said to the usher. ‘Monseigneur 
is busy ; but you will enter in your turn ; what name must 
I announce to His Excellency?’ ‘He does not know me.’ 
‘You have then a letter of introduction?’ ‘I have nothing.’ 
‘In that case it is impossible for me to introduce you to 

monsieur le ministre. Nevertheless ’ ‘Do not insist, 

my instructions forbid it.’ At this point the door opened, a 
gentleman withdrew, another presented himself. The 
usher left me, and I was alone with my reflections. All 
those who were waiting entered one after the other, the 
hour passed, and despair took possession of me. ’ ’ 

“Poor Cornelius!” murmured Belle-Hose. 

“In my distress I was about to leave for St. Germain 
and throw myself at the feet of the king, when all at once 
a lady passes the door and takes her course toward the 
minister’s cabinet. The usher rises and bows respectfully. 
‘Monsieur de Louvois?’ said the lady. ‘Monseigneur is 
busy.’ ‘Give him my name, I must speak to him at once.’ 
The usher disappeared. There are certain things which 
are a revelation. The accent and bearing of the lady make 
me understand her power. ‘Madame!’ I exclaimed, going 
to her, ‘deign to accord me a favor.’ ‘What is it?’ said she, 
turning around. For a moment I was dazzled. The lady’s 
glance was imperious, her lips haughty, her cheeks pale ; 
but she was as beautiful as a fairy queen. ‘Madame,’ I re- 
plied, ‘it concerns a poor sergeant whc has deserted.’ 
Then she approaches and looks at me. ‘He has an old 
father, a young sister, and is just twenty.’ ‘His name,’ 
said she interrupting me. ‘ Belle-Hose. ’ The lady utters a 
cry and totters. I rush to her support, but already re- 
covered from her emotion, she extends her hand to me. 
‘And you come to save him? You are a brave gentleman !’ 
It seemed to me that a tear dimmed the lady’s eye. ‘But it 
is quite natural,’ I said to her, ‘I love him, and I love liis 
sister.’ ” 

Cornelius blushed and stopped himself brusquely like a 
horse who has just set foot on the border of a precipice. 
Belle-Hose raised his head. A soft smile lit up his face 
just now so somber. 

“At last we have that great secret.” 

“Have I spoken? well, let it go; I will confirm it pres- 
ently ; in the meantime, let me continue my story ; I will 


A WOMAN’S HAND. 


125 


come to my affairs presently. I believe that the lady did 
not hear me, for she said : ‘But what risk does he run?’ 
‘The risk of being shot, that is all.’ She grew ijale. ‘Oh !’ 
she exclaimed, ‘they still shoot people, then?’ ‘They cer- 
tainly do. ’ ‘What shall we do, then? Supposing I prevent 
his trial?’ ‘Before that order could arrive, he will be con- 
demned. ’ ‘My God ! advice ! advice ! but I, too, have come 
in his interest!’ ‘Well, madame, what w^e need is his par- 
don.’ ‘His pardon! I will obtain it, but who will carry 
it to him?’ ‘I will; unless I am killed on the road, I will 
arrive in time to save him.’ ‘W^ait for me here — I shall 
return presently, ’ and she disappeared through the door 
which the usher had just opened. I remained alone for 
some minutes, which appeared a century to me. A thou- 
sand depressing reflections saddened my mind. Had this 
unknown woman the power which I supposed she pos- 
sessed? was the interest which she affected real? Pres- 
ently the door opens and the lady appears. I saw nothing 
this time except the parchment which she held in the tips 
of her snowy fingers. ‘Hold,’ she said to me, ‘here is the 
royal seal — you have his life in your hand. Go!’ Her 
countenance was radiant. I bowed over her hand and 
kissed it. ‘Your name, madame, so that his father, his 
sister, and he himself may bless you?’ ‘My name? I am 
the Duchess de Chateaufort, but do not tell him.’ ” 

“So she wished to favor me without my knowing it,” 
said Belle-Rose. 

“Three times she recommended to me the most absolute 
silence, but I have not kept that promise. There is no 
hatred or fault which a similar service does not wipe out. 
I went out with Madame de Chateaufort, whose carriage 
was waiting for her before the hotel. ‘Make haste, ’ she 
said to me, and pressing my hand, she drove away. Half 
an hour later, I was galloping at headrlong speed over the 
road to Cambrai. ” 

“And you arrived at the right time.” 

“I do not know what fear scourged my soul, as I spurred 
on my horse, but ^ each relay I rode faster. A voice cried 
to me that your life depended on my speed, and I passed 
like a bullet over the route.” 

“And it is to Madame de Chateaufort I owe this exist- 
ence so many times threatened!” 

Just then Monsieur de Naucrais entered the room. 

“Lieutenant,” said he, “the time for conversation is 
past. The hour for departure has come. ” 


126 


A WOMAN’S HAND. 


“Lieutenant! ” exclaimed Belle-Rose and Cornelius at 
the same time; “to whom do you speak, captain?” 

“But to you, Belle-Rose; read for yours^f. ” 

And Monsieur de Naucrais extended to the young man a 
paper adorned with the arms of the king. 

“I found this commission among the papers sent mo 
from Paris. It is regular, and you have nothing left but to 
obey. ” ’ 

“A lieutenancy for me!” said Belle-Rose. 

“The minister does things well when he does them,” re- 
sumed Monsieur de Naucrais; “pardon, promotion, and 
also a hundred louis for your outfit. Here is the order for 
them; the treasurer of the regiment will count them out 
to you to-morrow.” 

Monsieur de Naucrais enjoyed the surprise and emotion 
of Belle-Rose, whose gaze went from Cornelius to the cap- 
tain, and from the captain to the commission. 

“You will have the reversion of Monsieur deVillebrais,” 
continued Monsieur de Naucrais, “of Monsieur de Ville- 
brais, whom the corps of officers dismisses from the bat- 
talion while waiting for him to render an account to God 
for his infamy. ” 

“Heaven grant that he may cross my path!” exclaimed 
Belle-Rose. 

“It is a quarrel of which I should take half,” said the 
captain, “if he was worthy of our hatred. But let time do 
its work. The day which begins badly ends well, Belle- 
Rose, and the good news comes in quick succession. To- 
morrow we leave for the northern frontier.” 

“Does it mean war?” 

“It means war, and our battalion is attached to the 
corps commanded by the Duo de Luxembourg. He is a 
valiant warrior, and under his orders you will promptly 
find occasion to flush your maiden sword. Hold yourself 
in readiness ; the trumpets will sound to-morrow at day- 
break. ” 

“Parbleu! Belle-Rose,” exclaimed Cornelius, when Mon- 
sieur de Naucrais had withdrawn to watch over the last 
preparations for departure, “fortune treats you like the 
coquette she is. After having sulked for an hour, she 
overwhelms you with favors.” 

“I have as yet done nothing to earn them, but I hope 
the Spaniards will aid me to deserve them.” 

“Now that your affairs are progressing nicely, will you 
permit me to recall mine to you?” 

“Yours, my dear Cornelius? but I know them as well as 


A WOMAN’S HAND. 


127 


you. You love a little girl who is my sister, and from the 
manner in which you look at me, I have every reason to 
believe that this sister returns this love with her whole 
soul.” 

“It is my cherished belief.” 

“’Tis very well, and I approve of her having placed her 
affections so well. But as she is an honest girl, just as 
you are an honest man, I see insurmountable difficulties to 
the happy ending of this mutual affection.” 

“And what are they, if you please?” 

“In the first place, my sister is thoroughly plebeian, 
being the daughter of a simple falconer. ’ ’ 

“That is something to which my family alone would 
have the right to offer an objection, and as I atone consti- 
tute my family, you wilh find it good, I hope, that my 
nobility reconciles itself to your plebeian state.” 

‘ ‘ N e ver theless ’ ’ 

“Enough on that line. Besides, if you persist therein, 
do not forget that you are an officer now ; the sword en- 
nobles. ” 

“Agreed! but Claudine has almost nothing.” 

“That almost nothing borders so close on my very little 
that, without being much compromised, my fortune can 
ally itself to her poverty. ” 

“You have a logic which does not permit me to con- 
tinue. Behold my obstacles overthrown. ” 

“That is what I counted upon; so you consent?” 

“And the king’s post will count two or three foundered 
horses the more.” 

“So much the worse for them — it is their business to 
run.” 

“Is it ours to construct fine projects which a cannon- 
ball may upset?” 

“Bah! half of people’s lives is passed in building plans; 
it is so much gained upon the other half.” 

“Therefore you will leave?” 

“To-morrow, at sunrise. You will go to Flanders and I 
to Artois. ” 

“And from there to Paris?” 

“No, to the army, to you.” 

“You will ^nter our ranks?” 

“Unquestionably! An Irishman is half a Frenchman. 
We will fight first, and I shall get married afterward.” 


128 


THE DUG DE LUXEMBOUHa 


CHAPTER XVIII. 

THE DUG DE LUXEMBOURG. 

The war of 1667 was the prelude of that great war of 
1673, which announced itself like “a thunderbolt in a 
serene sky,” to make use of the expression of the Cheva- 
lier Temple apropos of the invasion of Holland. A hun- 
dred thousand men moving at the same time, traversed 
the Meuse and the Sambre and conquered Flanders with 
the rapidity of lightning. France presented then a mag- 
nificent spectacle. A young and elegant king, in love with 
all great and glorious things, attracted to his court the 
choicest intelligences scattered throughout the kingdom. 
Moliere and Racine made the French stage the first in the 
world ; Louvois and Colbert administered public affairs ; 
Conde and Turenne were at the head of the army; the most 
famous poets, the most illustrious writers, the most cele- 
brated women, the most eminent prelates, a crowd of men 
distinguished by their science, their wit, and their virtues, 
filled Paris with a renown which extended even to the 
ends of Europe. It was an imposing gathering of orators, 
generals, savants, literary men, ministers, and great ladies 
such as is rarely to be met wfith in the history of empires. 
France was at the same time enlightened and powerful, it 
had the double authority of arms and letters, and its 
supremacy extended to all things — to those of the mind as 
well as to those political ; it commanded by the sword and 
governed by the pen. During the brief respites of peace, 
the nations which had conquered in war came to instruct 
themselves at that center of light which shone in the 
middle of Europe, in that marvelous Paris which produces 
philosophers or soldiers, books or revolutions for guiding 
the world. Louis XIV. advised by Cardinal Mazarin, had 
signed on the 7th of November, 1659, the Treaty of the 
Pyrenees — the loss of the battle of Dunes, the taking of 
Dunkirk, of Gravelines, of Oudenardo and other important 
places, having decided Spain to propose a treaty which 
was accepted. By the peaceusigned in the He des Faisaus, 
Louis XIV. obtained the concession of Artois, Rousillon, 
Perpignan, Mariembourg, Laudrecies, Thionville, Philippe- 
ville. Gravelines, Montmedy, and the hand of Maria 
Theresa, daughter of Philip IV., and also Infanta of Spain. 
Louis XIV., master at home, now began to think of be- 


THE DUG DE LUXEMBOURG. 


129 


coming master outside of it. For eight years, he applied 
himself to cementing alliances, to neutralizing the efforts 
of powers whose rivalry was to he dreaded, to making 
everywhere blaze the supremacy of France. Spain recog- 
nized the precedence of France as the result of a quarrel 
at London between the ambassadors of the two countries ; 
Pope Alexander V. is constrained to disavow, by a public 
reparation, the insult offered to the French ambassador by 
his Corsican guard ; Dunkirk and Mardick are purchased 
from the English for five million francs; the alliance with 
Switzerland is renewed, Marsul in Lorraine is taken, the 
Algerian pirates are punished, the Portuguese sustained 
against the Spaniards, and the Emperor Leopold receivGt^ 
a reinforcement of six thousand volunteers who aid him 
to fight the Turks and take a glorious part in the battle of 
St. Gothard. In the meantime the King of France was 
waiting for his hour to come ; the most skilful generals 
commanded his army ; the navy was increased ; he let his 
ally, Holland, exhaust herself in a sterile and ruinous war 
against England, and was holding himself in readiness to 
act, when the death of Philip IV. permitted him at last to 
try his strength. But while formidable preparations 
seemed to threaten entire Europe, fetes filled with splen- 
dor the royal residences of Versailles and St. Germain, the 
stage attracted illustrious strangers, everywhere rose up 
splendid monuments, and the most polished as well as the 
most brilliant court in the world saw its days pass in the 
midst of the pomp of triumphant royalty and the marvels 
of honored intelligence. All at once, in the midst of this 
fruitful peace, embellished by the thousand creations of the 
arts, war burst out, and upon all the frontiers of the north 
the fires are lit. The king himself crosses the Sambre, ac- 
companied by the best captains of the time — Conde, 
Turenne, Luxembourg, Crequi, Grammont, and Vauban. 
In this general commotion, the shocks were so sudden and 
so profound, that even the most insignificant, pushed for- 
ward by the chances of fortune, might aspire to the first 
places. When great wars or social upheavals agitate 
nations, audacity, intelligence, knowledge, are stepping- 
stones ; the levels are lowered, and those who are at the 
bottom may hope to mount. It belongs then to those who 
have the energy to open a way. All these thoughts rapidly 
traversed Belle-Rose’s mind; he glimpsed the light on the 
horizon and ardently prayed for the hour of combat. The 
next clay, at daybreak, Monsieur de Naucrais sent for him 
in order to confide to him the organization and command 


130 THE DUG DE LUXEMBOUKa. 

of a corps of recruits which had just been brought to 
Cambrai. 

“I will precede you at the head of my old soldiers,” the 
captain said to him, “You will rejoin me at Charleroi, and 
the sooner the better.” 

Belle-Hose would have preferred to leave at once, hut it 
was necessary to obey; the mission with which he was 
charged was besides a proof of confidence ; he resigned 
himself and saw leave at the same hour Cornelius and 
Monsieur de Naucrais, the former for St. Oiper and the 
latter for Charleroi. The reader will readily divine that 
Corporal Deroute had not been the last to compliment 
Belle-Hose upon his new grade. 

“I no longer think of the epaulettes,” had said the poor 
corporal, “the only thing to which I aspire at present is to 
be under your orders. If you permit me to no longer quit 
you, I shall be the happiest of men.” 

“We will look after that when we reach the army. 
Monsieur de Naucrais will certainly grant me this authori- 
zation, which will give me as much pleasure as yourself.” 

After this assurance. Deroute, full of joy, took his way 
to the ramparts, where the company was drawn up in 
line. As he started to take his place in the ranks. Mon- 
sieur de Naucrais called him : 

“Eh, rascal! where are you running to?” 

“I am running to my soldiers. I have lost a little time, 
but I will repay you by pike thrusts in the stomachs of 
the Spaniards. ” 

“You speak of pikes; what have you done with your 
halberd?” 

“My halberd?” repeated the stupefied corporal. 

“Parbleu, I express myself in French, I imagine ! You 
have not been told * that you were a sergeant, or perhaps 
you have forgotten it?” 

“1! a sergeant!” 

“You have been one for three hours.” 

“I have only been out of the lock-up for an hour.” 

“And you will go there again if you do not quickly don 
the insignia of your grade. ” 

Deroute, thoroughly stupefied, saluted the captain and 
went away. He was very much perplexed over the motives 
which prompted his promotion. If he had deserved to be 
punished, why had he been given the halberd before the 
expiation of his penalty? But if his conduct, on the con- 
trary, called for a reward, why had they begun by im- 
prisoning him? Again, was the captain pleased or dis- 


THE DUG HE LUXEMBOURG. 


131 


pleased? This double question troubled the understanding 
of poor Deroute ; it was a puzzle which he could not solve. 

While his company was marching toward the northern 
frontier Belle-Rose hurried as much as possible the organi- 
zation of his recruits. He displayed so much activity that 
in a few days his squad was ready to leave, so that he 
reached the army before the opening of the campaign. 
The Army of Flanders was commanded by the Prince de 
Conde, who had under his orders the Due de Luxembourg, 
the Due d ’Dumont, and other generals. The battalion of 
artillery of which Monsieur de Naucrais’ company formed 
a part belonged to the corps of Monsieur de Luxembourg, 
and was one of the first assembled upon the banks of the 
Sambre, at Charleroi. When Belle-Rose reached the camp, 
night had fallen. He made himself recognized by the 
sentinels, distributed his men, and, learning that Mon- 
sieur de Naucrais was absent on some affairs of the service, 
he entered the tent which had been prepared for him. 
Belle-Rose had just unbuckled his belt and thrown aside 
Lis coat, when Deroute made his appearance. The sergeant 
had a depressed countenance and a mournful look, but in 
the claro obscuro of the tgnt, his lieutenant did not at 
first perceive it. 

“Eh! ’tis you, my poor Deroute? Yours is the first 
friendly face I have met here; so welcome. Are you well?” 

“Passably, thanks. It would be a good thing if every 
one w’as as w’ell as myself. ” 

Belle-Rose approached Deroute and looked at him. It 
was only then that he was struck by the dejection of his 
. countenance. 

“Speak! what has happened?” he said to him. 

“A great misfortune — I do not know how to tell you. — — ” 

“Whom does it concern?” 

“Our captain.” 

“Monsieur de Naucrais! But I have just come from the 
quarters, and was told that he was absent on some affair 
connected with the service.” 

“Apparently they did not yet know anything about it.” 

“And what do you know?” 

, “Monsieur de Naucrais is in prison.” 

“He! and why?” 

“He has disobeyed the general’s orders.” 

“An infraction of discipline on the part of our captain! 
It is impossible.” 

“I tell you that I have seen him. Would I tell you so if 
it were otherwise?” 


132 


THE DUG DE LUXEMBOURG. 


“But how has it come about?” 

“I do not know as yet! But what could you expect? 
Since his brother’s death, Monsieur de Naucrais has not 
been himself.” 

“But tell me how it happened.” 

“This is the way: You must first know that the Due de 
Luxembourg has, by an order of the day, forbidden the 
soldiers to venture beyond a certain limit around the 
camp ; above all he has prescribed, under penalty of death, 
the avoidance of every species of engagement with the 
enemy. The proclamation has been posted everywhere, 
and read at the mess. It is whispered around that Mon- 
sieur de Luxembourg wishes to wait for the arrival of the 
king before acting, who, as you know, is to take part in 
person in the operations.” 

“Drop the king, and come to Monsieur de Naucrais.” 

“Now, at noon to-day. Monsieur de Naucrais was riding 
on horseback in the direction of Gfosselies. He was accom- 
panied by some officers of the queen’s dragoons and by 
the Nivernais regiment. A party of Spanish skirmishers 
had passed the Pielou and were pillaging a hamlet. All at 
once a cornet of dragoons, w^^ had come straight from 
the court to the camp, draws his sword. ‘Devil take the 
orders!’ he exclaimed; ‘it shall not be said that an officer 
of the king saw the king’s fiag burnt without unsheathing 
his sword. ’ He sets spurs to his horse and leaves. The 
officers stop. ‘Shall we leave him without defense, mes- 
sieurs?’ exclaims Monsieur de Naucrais, in his turn, who 
was urging on his horse in the direction of the hamlet. 
The rest follow him. ‘Mordieu! they are killing him, ’ said . 
the captain, ‘forward, and vive le roi!' ” 

“You took part in the affair, then?” 

“Faith, being close by, I had seen the whole thing, and 
I have gone where my captain went. Monsieur de Nau- 
crais seemed a lion. Bare-headed, coat torn in twenty 
places, crying, ^Vive le roV between each blow. The 
frightened Spaniards broke ranks. To sum up, we had lost 
thirty men, without counting the wounded ; but we had 
the village and the redoubt. When we were masters of the 
place, Monsieur de Naucrais marshaled the officers around , 
him. ‘Messieurs,’ he said to them, ‘we have committed a 
fault ; it is grave. I am the most, guilty— therefore it is 
mine.’ ‘It is ours, too!’ cried these brave gentlemen. 
‘Then, as the oldest one among you,’ continued the cap- 
tain, ‘it is my duty to render an account to the Due de 
Luxembourg of what has taken place. ’ Monsieur de Nau- 


THE DUG DE LUXEMBOURG. 


133 


crais threw aside his notched saber, and tranquilly took 
up the way to the general’s quarters. He reached it an 
hour ago, and only left it to go from the general’s apart- 
ments to prison. ” 

“Are you sure of it?” 

“I met him, and, having seen me, he made me a sign to 
approach.” 

“ ‘My fate is sealed. Deroute,’ he said to me. ‘If Belle- 
Rose arrives during the night, tell him to try to see me. 
An hour after sunrise it will be too late.” 

Belle-Rose drew on his coat, buckled his belt, and picked 
up his hat. 

“You are going to join him, lieutenant?” said Deroute. 

“No, I am not. ” 

“But where are you going, then?” 

“To see the duke.” 

“He will not receive you; there is a council to-night.” 

“I will force my entrance.” 

“My lieutenant, take care ” 

“Of what?” 

“You risk your life.” 

“ Well ! I shall lose my life or save his. ” 

Belle-Rose, without listening any longer to Deroute, 
passed the door and rapidly took his course toward the 
general’s quarters. Deroute followed him from a distance. 
The first sentinels let him pass, his epaulettes and the dis- 
order of his costume causing him to be taken for an aid- 
de-camp charged with an order from the Prince de Conde. 
But at the entrance to the house tenanted by the general, 
a grenadier stopped him. 

“No one is allowed to pass,” he said to him. 

“Monsieur de Luxembourg expects me,” boldly replied 
Belle-Rose. 

“The word of order?” 

“I have it not. ” 

“Then you will not enter.” 

“Parbleu! we will see about that.” 

And Belle-Rose, overthrowing the grenadier with an 
irresistible force, reached the corridor at a bound. A light 
was shining at the top of a stair-way. He climbs it, re- 
pulses two guards, opens a door in front of him, and dis- 
appears before the sentinel even had time to cock his 
musket. The Due de Luxembourg was seated in a large 
easy-chair; in his hand he held dispatches, and upon a 
table in reach of him, maps and papers were to be seen 
scattered, At the noise made by Belle-Rose on entering 


134 


WHEAT AND TAKES. 


the hall, the general exclaimed, without turning his head: 

“What is it now, and what do you want with me? Have 
I not given orders to let no one enter?” 

“Monsieur le Due, I have forced the sentry 

At these words, at the sound of this unknown voice, the 
Due de Luxembourg arose. 

“It is an audacity which will cost you dear, monsieur,” 
said he, and he rang a bell. 

The soldiers on guard and some officers entered. 

“A word, I pray you! You can dispose of my life after- 
ward,” said Belle-Hose, just as Monsieur de Luxembourg 
was undoubtedly going to give the order for his arrest. 

The general was silent. His eyes inflamed by anger, 
wandered over Belle-Hose; the disorder of the young 
officer, the frankness of his physiognomy, the resolution 
of his look, the anxiety to be read upon his countenance, 
touched the illustrious captain. He made a sign of the 
hand ; everybody went out, and the Due de Luxembourg 
and Belle-Hose were left alone. 


CHAPTEH XIX. 

WHEAT AND TARES. 

The general and the lieutenant looked at each other for 
a minute before speaking. If one had been able to read 
Monsieur de Luxembourg’s heart, one would have seen 
pass therein the fugitive and uncertain light of a recollec- 
tion drowned in the shadows of a stormy and active life. 
As to Belle-Hose, never before this hour had he found 
himself — at least, he thought so — in the presence of the 
famous captain whose renown shone with a radiant splen- 
dor even between the redoubtable names of Turenne and 
Conde. A respectful fear seized his soul, and his proud 
look was lowered before Monsieur de Luxembourg, w^hom 
he nevertheless over-topped by a whole head. The vague 
recollection of the general was effaced like a flash ; he 
only saw before him now a presumptuous soldier whom it 
was necessary to listen to first and to punish afterward. 

“What' do you wish? Speak!” said he. 

“I come to implore the pardon of a guilty man.” 

“His name?” 

“Monsieur de Naucrais.” 

“The captain who beat the Spaniards to-dajf and took 
Gosselies?” 


135 


WHEAT AND TARES. 

“A beautiful action, monsieur.’" 

“There is no beautiful action which infringes discipline. ” 

“The French flag was being burnt upon the king’s 
territory.” 

“There was an order of the day, monsieur. Had twenty 
flags been burnt and flfty villages sacked, it was the 
soldier’s duty not to budge!” 

“It is a fault redeemed by the victory.” 

“It is not a question of conquering but obeying. If the 
voice of generals is not recognized, what becomes of dis- 
cipline? and without discipline there is no army.” 

“It is the first time Monsieur de Naucrais has conquered 
without orders.” 

“It will also be the last.” 

“Monseigneur!” 

“An example is necessary. In a time when there come 
to us from the court a hundred young officers who are not 
accustomed to war, to tolerate one such great infraction of 
military laws would be to authorize thirty. Monsieur de 
Naucrais must die.” 

“Pardon, monsieur le due, listen to me.” 

“Eh! monsieur, who are you, then, that you should ex- 
hibit so much persistence?” 

“Belle-Rose, lieutenant in the artillery corps.” 

“Belle-Rose! it is a singular name! Belle-Rose?” 

“The name has nothing to do with the affair.” 

“Quite right, ” said the general^ who could not refrain 
from smiling; “but are you his brother, his relative, his 
friend?” 

“Monsieur le Naucrais is my captain. ” 

“That means you will gain a pair of epaulettes.” 

“Oh! monseigneur!” said Belle-Rose, with an accent of 
reproach. 

“Well, what? It is the custom in war; each for himself 
and the bullets for all.” 

“But ” 

“Enough! I have wished to hear you, monsieur, and to 
forget, for a moment, the severe breach of discipline com- 
mitted by you in forcing the sentry who defended my 
door ; but this indulgence, which I hope you will not make 
me repent, is not a motive to justify the pardoning of the 
fault of which Monsieur de Naucrais has rendered himself 
guilty. I have already told you; Monsieur de Naucrais 
will be shot at daybreak to-morrow.” 

“No, monseigneur,” exclaimed Belle-Rose boldly, “no, 
it shall not be!” 


136 


WHEAT AND TABES. 


“And who, then, will prevent it?” 

“Yourself.” 

“Me!” 

“Yes, you!” 

“Monsieur Belle-Rose, take care!” said the duke, grow- 
ing pale. 

“Oh! I fear nothing for myself ! The right defends me 
as your justice should defend Monsieur de Naucrais. One 
does not kill a brave officer because he has blood in his 
veins.” 

“Morbleu!” 

“Eh! monseigneur, if you had been in his place, perhaps 
you would have done as much.” 

At this brusque repartee, the Due de Luxembourg could 
not refrain from smiling. 

“Agreed,” said he, “but if he "were in mine, he would 
act like me!” 

Belle-Rose continued : 

“A band of pillagers insult the French flag, a captain of 
the king is there, and would not draw his sword to punish 
the insolent fellows ! But it is impossible ! Fire devours a 
village, the odor of powder mounts to your head, a horse 
prances, a dig of the spur is quickly given, and you 
go, not so much because you wished to, but because 
you are a man. Then, what happens? The enemy turn 
round, you pursue them, you kill them right and left, you 
fall pell-mell upon a redoubt which is carried by assault, 
the white flag is planted upon the rampart, and you cry, 

‘ Vive le roi!' you embrace your companions, and on re- 
turning, instead of a recompense, it is a musket-ball which 
is waiting for you. But you, monseigneur, who condemn 
men so quickly and so well — your feats are known! You 
have crossed twenty rivers, massacred ten thousand Span- 
iards, taken thirty redoubts ! This is what you would have 
done, peer of France though you are, and what I would 
have done — I who am only a poor lieutenant.” 

“Well, we would have both been shot,” said the general. 

Belle-Rose trembled. In his generous ardor, he had for 
a moment forgotten the rank of the man to whom he was 
speaking. At these words, his youthful zeal calmed down, 
as does the boiling water of a vase when a cold stream is 
poured upon it. 

“You have pleaded well Monsieur de Naucrais’ cause,” 
added Monsieur do Luxembourg, with dignity; “audacity 
is not unbecoming to youth, and that which you have just 
shown honors you and at the same time gives me a high 


WHEAT AND TARES. 


137 


opinion of the character of Monsieur de Naucrais. An 
ordinary man does not inspire such devotion. But every- 
thing must give way to discipline. In spite of j^our prayer, 
I regret to repeat to you that Captain de Naucrais will be 
shot at daybreak to-morrow.” 

Monsieur de Luxembourg, with a noble gesture, saluted 
Belle-Hose, but the lieutenant did not budge. The duke 
frowned. 

“I thought I had explained myself clearly, monsieur,” 
said he. 

“Pardon me, monseigneur, if I insist, but ” 

“Ah! Monsieur Belle-Hose, I did not wish to grow 
offended at your audacity ; but a longer insistence will 
oblige me to recollect who you are and who I am.” 

Belle-Hose smiled sadly. 

“May you do so, then, if the recollection of the distance 
between us recalls to you that you can accomplish a good 
action, and that I can only ask one of you.” 

Monsieur de Luxembourg repressed a gesture of impa- 
tience. 

“Since you do not wish to understand me, permit me, 
monsieur, to call for some one to reconduct you to the 
quarters of the artillery.” 

As he concluded these words, the duke approached the 
table to pick up the little bell, but Belle-Hose anticipated 
his movement, and rushing to the table, he seized the 
general’s hand. 

“Through pity, monseigneur!” said he. 

A flash of anger lit up the eyes of Monsieur de Luxem- 
bourg ; he quickly disengaged himself, and with one hand 
seizing Belle-Hose by the lapel of his coat, with the other 
he took a pistol which he pressed against his breast. The 
hammer fell, but the priming alone burned, and the duke, 
rend^ed furious, threw the weapon upon the floor. Not a 
muscle of Belle-Hose’s face quivered. But Monsieur de 
Luxembourg had leaned forward. The violence of his 
movement had partly opened Belle-Hose’s clothing, and 
upon the half-naked breast of the lieutenant shone a gold 
medallion suspended by a silk cord. The general’s hand 
took possession of it. 

“Where did you get this medallion?” he exclaimed, in a 
quick tone. 

“I found it, monseigneur.” 

“Where?” 

“At St. Omer.” 

“When?” 


138 


WHEAT AND TAKES. 


“In 1658. But of what importance. is this medallion to 
you? It is a question of Monsieur de Naucrais.” 

“You found it at St. Omer in 1658?” said the duke, 

“Yes,” replied Belle-Hose, who did not understand the 
Due de Luxembourg’s emotion. “I was then thirteen years 
old.” 

Monsieur de Luxembourg stepped back a little and began 
to consider the young lieutenant. A vail seemed to disap- 
pear from his face as the examination advanced. 

“Eh, yes!” he exclaimed, “I find again that vague re- 
semblance which struck me on seeing you. Belle- Rose, did 
you say? but your name is not Belle-Rose! it is Jacques — 
Jacques Grinedal.” 

Belle-Rose, frightened, looked at Monsieur de Luxem- 
bourg. 

“Eh ! parbleu! You are Guillaume Grinedal’s son. Have 
I not seen the falconer’s little cottage?” 

“You!” exclaimed Belle-Rose, who, in his turn, began 
to study the general’s features with an eager curiosity. 

“But you have not kept, then, the least recollection of 
a day not an hour of which is effaced from my memory. 
Ah ! you have not given the lie to my prediction — the 
brave child has become a brave officer.” 

“The peddler!” said Belle- Rose. 

“Eh, yes! the peddler become, by the grace of God, 
general in the king’s service. The times are no longer the 
same, but the heart has not changed. Child, you have 
rendered me a service ; become a man, it is my turn to 
serve you.” 

“Well, monsieur le due, if it is true that you recollect 
that night passed under the roof of Guillaume Grinedal, 
permit me to ask you no other proof of your favor than 
the life of Monsieur de Naucrais. ” 

“Again!” 

“Always! I wish nothing and expect nothing for my- 
self ; but let this unhoped-for meeting save my captain as 
our first one has been of some aid to you, and among all 
the days of my life these will be two blessed days.” 

Monsieur de Luxembourg kept turning the medallion 
between his fingers, caressing with the look an image 
which the chased lid had just uncovered. 

“You have not changed, friend Jacques,” said he; “you 
are still the same proud and resolute fellow. Come, go. I 
will do for Monsieur de Naucrais everything which the 
military laws permit me.” 


WHEAT AND TARES. 139 

Belle-Rose understood this time that he must go; he 
bowed to the general and went out. 

At daybreak the next morning an officer of the general’s 
household came to warn Belle-Rose that he was expected 
in the great council chamber. Belle-Rose donned his uni- 
form and went out. When. he entered the hall, his heart 
heat rapidly. The Due de Luxembourg, surrounded by a 
brilliant staff, was seated in a large fauteuil ; among the 
great officers of his suite, several wore upon the coat the 
insignia of their high rank. 

Monsieur de Luxembourg saluted Belle-Rose with the 
hand, and indicated to him a place situated in a manner to 
give a good view of all that which was going to take place. 
Upon a sign from the general, everybody sat down in a 
profound silence, an officer went out, and a moment after 
the doors gave passage to Monsieur de Naucrais, who was 
followed by two grenadiers. Monsieur de Naucrais per- 
ceived Belle-Rose, both exchaneed a smile — the one of 
f areweH, the other of hope ; then the captain bowed to the 
council and waited. Monsieur de Luxembourg took off his 
wshite-plumed hat and stood. 

“Monsieur de Naucrais,” said he, “you committed yes- 
terday a grave breach of discipline ; you who ought, as an 
officer, to give an example of submission, have disobeyed 
the orders of your superiors and merit, by that fact, a 
severe punishment; you are stripped of your grade. 
Yesterday you handed to me your sword; you must now 
lose your epaulettes. Gentlemen, do your duty. ” 

At these words, two officers approached Monsieur de 
Naucrais and took from him the insignia of his command. 
Monsieur de Naucrais grew slightly pale. Belle-Rose, 
chilled by terror, dared not make a single movement. 

“You know, monsieur, that military laws condemn you 
to death,” continued the Due de Luxembourg; “have you 
nothing to say in your defense?” 

“Nothing; your sentence is just, and I have deserved it. 
When one violates the laws of discipline as I have done, 
’tis best to die.” 

At these funereal words. Bell-rose concealed his head 
between his hands ; great drops of sweat beaded upon his 
forehead. 

“In the name of the king,” resumed Monsieur de Lux- 
embourg, “and acting by reason of the power conferred 
upon me, I absolve you from the penalty of death.” 

“You pardon me!” exclaimed the captain, making two 
. steps forward. 


140 


WHEAT AND TABES. 


“Hear me to the end, monsieur, and if you have any ob- 
jections to make, you will make them afterward.” 

Monsieur de Naucrais crossed his arms upon his breast 
and was silent. Belle-Rose leaned forward to hear better 
what the duke was going to say. The latter continued : 

“You have been punished for the fault, monsieur; it is 
right that you should now be rewarded for the victory. ’ ’ 

Monsieur de Naucrais trembled, and Belle-Rose breathed 
like a man who, after having remained some time under 
the water, returns to the light. 

“In the name of the king, I took from you the sword of 
the captain ; in the name of the king, I return to you that 
of a colonel. Take it, then, monsieur, and if you always 
serve worthily your country as you have done up to now, 
new rewards will not be long in seeking you.” 

The Due de Luxembourg extended his hand to Monsieur 
de Naucrais. That strong man whom the approach of 
death could not move, grew troubled like a child at the 
the general’s words; he took the sword with a trembling 
hand, and, without voice to thank him for a favor so 
nobly accorded, he could only express by his emotion the 
extent of his gratitude. The officers surrounded him, and 
Monsieur de Luxembourg approached Belle-Rose. 

“You have appealed from the general to the peddler,” 
said he, “the peddler has recollected. ” 

Belle-Rose wished to reply, but Monsieur de Luxem- 
bourg stopped him. 

“I was your debtor,” he said to him, kindly, “I have 
wished to repay you — that is all ; now, instead of one pro- 
tector, you have two.” 

A minute later it was Monsieur de Naucrais’ turn. 

“I know what I owe to you,” said he to Belle-Rose; “if 
you have lost a friend in Monsieur d’Assonville, you have 
gained a brother in me. ’ ’ 

A vigorous grasp of the hand^terminated this laconic dis- 
course, and the new colonel ran to make himself recog- 
nized by his regiment. As Belle-Rose was returning to the 
quarter of his company, a personage who was leaving it 
ran up against him. 

“Cornelius!” 

“Belle-Rose!” they exclaimed, at the same time, and the 
two friends embraced. 

“It is a happy day, ” said Belle-Rose. “There are still 
some left in life, then!” 

“There are a thousand!” replied Cornelius, whose 
countenance was radiant with happiness. “I have seen 


WHEAT AND TARES. 


141 


your father ; he calls me his son ; I have seen Pierre, who 
wishes to he a soldier, in order to become a captain ; I 
have here a letter from Claudine which prov*es to me that 
I am loved as much as I love — and you ask if there are 
happy days in life. But it is full of them.” 

Belle-Bose smiled. 

“Bah !” continued the young enthusiast, “if I ever meet 
another Claudine, I will give her to you, and you will be 
of my opinion.” 

“We will look around, but while waiting to find her, 
you will become my brother in arms.” 

“Yes, certainly; I am a volunteer, and I intend to help 
you take Brussells.” 

While talking of their affairs and their hopes, the two 
young men had strayed from the lines. The day was 
warm and beautiful ; they pushed on into the country. As 
they were entering a sunken road, a gun was fired some 
distance away, and the ball flattened itself against a 
pebble, two. steps irom Belle-Rose. Cornelius rushed to 
the bank of the road. A light cloud of smoke was floating 
upon the edge of a hop field. 

“Oh! oh!” he exclaimed, “those are Spanish marauders. 
“I no longer see our camp.” 

“Let us turnback, then,” replied Belle-Rose ; “swords 
cannot compete with muskets.” 

Profiting by the hedges and ditches, Belle-Rose and Cor- 
nelius gained the approaches of the camp. The first sentry 
was only a hundred steps away, when Belle-Rose stumbled 
against a stump ; at the same moment, two balls, passing 
above him, buried themselves in the trunk of an oak. 

“Lucky fall!” said Belle-Rose, “I owe my life to it.” 

Some soldiers ran up on hearing this last shot, but the 
marauders had already disappeared. 

They were traversing the camp when, at the turn of a 
street, Cornelius nudged Belle-Rose with his elbow. 

“Look,” he said to him. 

Belle-Rose raised his eyes and saw Monsieur de Ville- 
brais passing on horseback. 

“I imagine that this must be the captain of the marau- 
ders,” added Cornelius. 


142 


DICE AND CARDS. 


CHAPTER XX. 

DICE AND CARDS. 

Monsieur de Villebrais had scarcely entered the camp 
when the noise of his arrival spread. The staffs of the 
divers regiments which composed the army were stirred 
up by it, and several officers who were acquainted with 
his conduct in respect to Belle-Rose and the murder of 
Monsieur d’Assonville, loudly expressed their indignation. 
So much audacity astonished them. But Monsieur de 
Villebrais was not a man to grow frightened at these 
rumors, and knowing himself supported at court by a 
relative who had some credit, he thought he could brave 
with impunity the opinion of his fellows. He was one of 
those men — and the number of them is greater than one 
would think — who have a cowardly heart and a bold mind. 
The evening, then, of his ai rival, he went in uniform to an 
• inn where the officers who were not on duty gathered to- 
gether to talk, drink, and play games. A numerous com- 
pany was assembled there when he entered. Belle-Rose, 
introduced by Monsieur de Naucrais, received everywhere 
a welcome which proved at the same time the esteem 
which was entertained for his person and for that of the 
colonel. Monsieur de Villebrais passed between the group 
without appearing to see his rival, and advancing toward 
a table where seven or eight officers were playing lansque- 
net, he threw some gold pieces upon the board. The man 
who held the cards raised his eyes and recognized Mon- 
sieur de Villebrais. He was an old captain of artillery 
who was known throughout the regiment for his bravery. 

“I stake ten louis, ” said Monsieur de Villebrais. 

“Messieurs, I stake nothing,” rejoined the captain, and 
throwing the cards upon the table, ho withdrew. 

“Monsieur!” exclaimed the lieutenant, drunk with anger 
and his hand upon the guard of his sword. 

The old captain stopped a minute, eyed Monsieur de 
Villebrais from head to foot, with a scornful smile, and 
passed on without making any reply. A young musketeer 
picked up the cards and shuffled them. 

“Play, messieurs,” said he. 

But, before drawing a card, he pushed back the gold 
pieces of Monsieur de Villebrais, and taking with affecta- 
tion the glove which had touched them, he threw it into 


DICE AND GAUDS. 


143 


one corner. Monsieur de Villebrais bit his lips till the 
blood came. 

“It is an insult which you will answer to me for,” said 
he, in a hollow voice. 

The musketeer rose and looked at Monsieur de Ville- 
brais as the old captain had done. 

“Decidedly,” said he, turning to his comrades, “this - 
table is placed in a dirty place ; one comes in contact here 
with disgusting things. Let us go away. ” 

A red cloud passed before Monsieur de Villebrais’ eyes. 
In his blind fury, he wished to seize one of the officers by 
the arm. This man — a cornet in the light-horse — repulsed 
him and very gravely went to work to dust the sleeve of 
his coat. The impulse was given. Every one felt bound to 
^act like the captain of artillery, whose loyalty and honesty 
were proverbial. 

“I am one who wishes to fight you all, cowards!” cried 
Monsieur de Villebrais. 

A shiver traversed the circle of officers, but a captain of 
grenadiers intervened. 

“I believe it would be proper to have the gentleman 
caned,” said he, designating the pale victim; “the valets 
of the inn would serve us in this respect ; what do you 
think of itr” 

“Yes! yes!” replied several voices; “call the valets.” 

“Stop!” said a lieutenant of cannoneers; “they are 
honest fellows who might be compromised by it. Lackeys 
against a bandit — it is unjust. Let us leave the place.” 

The circle of officers was broken and each one made for 
the door. Belle-Rose had been a mute witness of this hor- 
rible scene. As he passed before his ancient lieutenant. 
Monsieur de Villebrais recognized him. 

“Oh!” he exclaimed, with a transport of rage, “you, at 
least, will kill me.” 

And he drew his sword. 

Belle-Rose was already placing his hand upon the guard 
of his, when Monsieur de Naucrais seized him by the arm. 

“Monsieur Grinedal,” he said to him, in a quick tone of 
voice, “His majesty has not given you an officer’s sword 
for you to soil it. ” 

Belle-Rose’s sword, half drawn, was returned to its 
scabbard, and all the officers walked slowly out. Monsieur 
de Villebrais, left alone, tottered; the sword escaped from 
his nerveless hands, an icy sweat bathed his forehead, and 
he fell upon the carpet. Ah hour after this scene Sergeant 
Deroute entered the inn with the air of a man who has a 


144 


DICE AND CAEDS. 


delicate mission to discharge. At the first glance he per- 
ceived Monsieur de Villebrais seated upon a chair, his 
elbows supported upon a table, and his head between his 
hands, pale, mournful, and dejected. His sword was still 
upon the floor. 

Deroute made three steps forw’ard, and, taking off his 
hat, gave a slight bow. 

“Monsieur de Villebrais?” said he. 

Monsieur de Villebrais trembled like a man violently 
drawn from a profound sleep. He raised his head and 
recognized Deroute. 

“Oh!” said he, “it is a challenge you bring me?” 

“No, monsieur, it is an order.” 

“An order!” 

“And it is I whom the officers of the regiment have 
chosen for signifying it to you. ’ ’ 

“ You ! insolent fellow ! ’ ’ 

And Monsieur de Villebrais, in a fit of wild anger, 
grabbed his sword by the blade and raised the heavy 
guard over Deroute’s head ; but Deroute, throwing himself 
back, took from his belt a pistol whose muzzle he turned 
toward Monsieur de Villebrais. 

“Let us act fair, monsieur,” he said to him, with that 
good-natured air of his; “you are no longer my officer. I 
swear to you, then, that if you make a step forward, if 
you touch me, I shall blow out your brains.” 

Monsieur de Villebrais threw his sword against the wall 
of the room with so much violence that the blade was 
shivered to pieces. 

“Monsieur,” said the sergeant, replacing the pistol in 
his belt, “you are w^arned by the officers of the regiment 
in which you served as lieutenant, that if you have the 
audacity to present yourself to-morrow at the quarters or 
the parade, they will be constrained to punish you with 
the flat of their swords, in the presence of the whole army. 
Consequently you are requested to leave at once, unless it 
pleases you to submit to this treatment, and to be after- 
ward delivered to the provost, under the accusation of 
assassination. I have spoken. ” 

Deroute picked up his hat and went out. Monsieur de 
Villebrais did not move. He was like a man struck by a 
thunderbolt. « Thus the cup of humiliation and of shame 
had been emptied upon his head, even to the last drop. 
He remained silent for an hour, then stood up paler than 
a corpse and with lightning in his eyes. He pulled off his 
epaulettes and threw them away, cut with a knife the 


DICE AND CARDS. 


145 


golden flenrs-de-lis sewed to his coat, tore the white 
cockade, attached to his hat, and trampled it under his 
feet, picked up, at the foot of the wall where it was lying, 
the guard of his broken sword, slipped the stumj) of it in 
his scabbard, and went away. An hour after a man on 
horseback left the camp. When he had reached a certain 
distance, he stopped his horse upon a slight elevation and 
turned in the direction of the lines which he had just 
abandoned. A thousand flames shone in space, where the 
cries of the sentinels echoed unceasingly. Monsieur de 
Villebrais — for it was he — contemplated the warlike city 
where floated the flag of France. His arms were raised to 
heaven, whose terrible maledictions he seemed to bo ap- 
pealing for. “Vengeance!” said he, and urging on his 
horse toward the Belgian frontier, he disappeared in the 
shadows. Three leagues in front sparkled the flrst fires of 
the enemy’s lines. Halted by the Spanish sentinels. Mon- 
sieur de Villebrais asked the officer who commanded the 
post to conduct him to the general. A moment after Mon- 
sieur de Villebrais, guided by the officer himself, arrived 
at the tent of the Duke of Castel-Rodrigo, who governed 
Belgium for the King of Spain. The duke was seated be- 
fore a table loaded with maps and plans. Some aides-de- 
camp, booted and spuired, were sleeping in the corners of 
the tent. 

“Whatjs it now?” exclaimed the duke, at the noise 
made by the sentinels in presenting arms. 

“I bring you a stranger, my general, who desires to 
speak to you,” replied the officer. 

The duke looked at Monsieur de Villebrais. 

“You are a Frenchman, monsieur,” he said to him. 

“Yes, general.” 

“Whence come you?” 

“Frorh over yonder,” said the lieutenant, pointing in 
the direction of^the French camp. 

“From the French camp?” exclaimed the duke. 

“Yes, general.” 

“And what do you want?” 

“I come to ofl-'er you my sword and my arm.” 

“Ah!” said the duke, with a gesture in which there was 
as much surprise as scorn. “That is to say,” he resumed, 
after a short silence, “that you come as a deserter?” 

“I come as a man who wishes to avenge himself.” 

“Very well, monsieur. Then you have a grave insult to 
punish?” 

“Look I” exclaimed Monsieur de Villebrais, drawing the 


146 


DICE AND CARDS. 


stump of his sword from the scabbard; “I have broken 
this sword, hut I will fasten another blade to this guard, 
and I will strike those who have struck me.” 

“Then we can count upon you if w^e welcome you?” 

“You can count upon me if you accord me what I ask.” 

“What is it you desire?” 

“Some determined men and the right to lead them 
wherever I wish, day and night.” 

“You shall have them.” 

“Then I am yours.” 

The Duke of Castel-Rodrigo took up a pen from the 
table, wrote some w^ords, and handed the paper to the 
lieutenant, 

“Here is the order, monsieur; now answw, but think of 
what you say, for as sure as you deceive me, I shall have 
you hung.” 

“Then I have nothing to fear; speak.” 

“Has Louis XIV. arrived at Charleroi?” 

“He will reach the camp to-morrow.” 

“Does he intend to quit the banks of the Sambre and 
push on farther?” 

“It is believed that the army will abandon its encamp- 
ment and invade the Spanish possessions, which it has 
orders to conquer.” 

“We have Douai, Mens, Tournay, Maubeuge, and Ques- 
noy.” 

“These places will hold out three days and will be 
taken.” 

“Monsieur,” said the duke, “do you forget that you 
speak to the governor of the province?” 

“I forget nothing; you question me, I answer.” 

“If you believe so strongly in the success of the French 
arras, what, then, do you come to seek among us?” 

“I have told you — vengeance.” 

“’Tis well, monsieur, withdraw; when I need your 
services, you shall be informed of it.” 

When they had gone out, Monsieur de Villebrais turned 
to the officer who accompanied him. 

“gave you, monsieur,” he said to hirn, “in some regi- 
ment of the army, any of those men who recoil before no 
undertaking and know how to ri«k all in the hope qf 
honest gain?” 

“Unfortunately we have too many of those kind of men. 
You seek soldiers, you will find bandits.” 

“Will you, monsieur, conduct me to the quarters of 
those men?” 


DICE AND CARDS. U7 

“It is there, behind that clump of sycamores. They 
serve in the Duke of Ascot’s corps.” 

The officer hastened on. 

“Look, monsieur, ” said he, stopping behind the syca- 
mores, and with his finger he pointed out to him a line of 
tents where, in spite of the advanced hour of the night, 
was to be heard a confused noise of songs and cries. 

Around some tents, lit up by candles stuck in the ends 
of guns, were to be seen a great number of soldiers who 
were playing dice upon the skin of their drums ; others 
were sleeping here and there, others were drinking, and 
still others were quarreling. The empty bottles were being 
smashed, the gamblers were swearing ; the most irascible 
sustained their opinion pistol in hand, the women went 
and came, stopping at the places where the money was 
circulating ; in one corner there was a soldier gasping for 
breath, and near him two others who were emptying his 
purse. 

“There are men here from every country, ” said the 
officer to Monsieur de Villebrais; “not one of them but 
what has deserted at least five times ; I imagine that they 
will readily take to you.” 

Monsieur de Villebrais threw a cold glance at the 
Spaniard. 

“I shall see whether they do or not,” said he, and he 
advanced toward the first group. 

Five or six soldiers squatting upon the ground were 
shaking an old dice-box blackened by use; the dice 
sounded as they rolled upon the drum. 

One of them, who had lost, was twisting his mustache 
with one hand and fumbling in his pocket with the other. 

“Here are five ducats,” said the man who had won, 
“who wishes them?” 

“I will give my saber for five ducats,” said the one who 
had lost,' and, unclasping his belt, he threw it upon the 
drum. 

“Your saber! it is scarcely worth two ; the blade is of 
iron and the handle of copper. ” 1 

“Well, here are my pistols, ” said the soldier; “pistols' 
which have killed ten Catholics and ten Huguenots.” 

Monsieur de Villebrais’ hand was placed upon the shoul- 
der of the bettor. 

“I take the saber for ten ducats, and I give ten more for 
the arm which holds it,” said he. 

“Agreed!” exclaimed the soldier, on seeing the money 
shine upon the drum. “Eh! Conrad! play, will you?” 


148 


DICE AND CAEDS. 


Conrad threw the dice and lost; at the third throw he 
no longer had anything. 

“My officer,” said he to Monsieur de Villebrais, who 
was watching them with arms crossed upon his breast, “I 
also have a saber and a hand — do you wish them?” 

“Here are twenty ducats.” 

“Bargain concluded,” said Conrad, slipping the money 
into his pockets. 

“Conrad,” brusquely exclaimed a new-comer wearing 
the hussars’ uniform, “Jeanne has taken a fancy for a 
necklace to go with her gold cross ; I have nothing except 
my horse left — do you want it?” 

“I take the horse and give it to you, ” said Monsieur de 
Villebrais. 

“You give me the money and the horse?” said the 
hussar, counting his gold-pieces. 

“I give them to you, but on one condition.” 

“Only one?” 

“That is all; the horse and man will follow me every- 
where I go.” 

“They are ready.” 

At the end of a quarter of an hour Monsieur de Ville- 
brais had recruited his band. There was in the little troop 
which Monsieur de Villebrais conducted to the lodging 
assigned him a Lorraine, two Walloons, a native of Franc- 
Comtois, a Piedmontese, two Swiss, two Dutchmen, and a 
Bavarian. He ranged his new acolytes around him and 
examined them attentively. 

“You have,” he said to them a moment after, “as wages 
half a pistole per day and a whole one on days when there 
is an expedition.” 

“Bravo!” said the Piedmontese. 

“Night service will receive double pay.” 

“Good,” said the native of Franc-Comtois, “I will sleep 
during the day.” 

“At the first word ’tis necessary to be ready; at the 
first sign ’tis necessary to leave ; at the first order ’tis 
necessary to kill.” 

“If it is the order, it is done,” said the Bavarian. 

“Go, now; you, Conrad, remain.” 

The troop disappeared, and Conrad sat down in one 
corner, while Monsieur de Villebrais fumbled in his valise. 

“Listen,” said the lieutenant, who had just drawn a 
paper from the valise, “and keep well in mind what I am 
going to say to you.” 

“I am listening,” said the Lorraine. 


GOOD AND EVIL. 


149 


“You will leave at daybreak for the French ctop. It is 
your business to enter it.” 

“I will enter it.” 

“You will learn the quarters of the artillery and go 
there at once. It will be easy to discover the lodging of a 
lieutenant named Grinedal ; he is known to the soldiers as 
Belle-Rose.” 

- “I will find him.” 

“You will hand him this letter. It is, as you can see, 
inclosed in an envelope and bearing no address ; this letter 
has been written by a woman. You will say to Belle-Rose 
that the person who handed you this letter is waiting for 
him two leagues from camp, behind Morlanwelz, near a 
wood which you possibly know.” 

“I know it. It is a marvelous place for ambuscades.” 

“That is what I thought yesterday as I rode by it. You 
will so arrange it that Lieutenant Grinedal shall follow 
you into this wood.” 

“He will follow me.” 

“In that case you shall have twenty louis.” 

“They are earned.” 

“Very well. One word. If you iot yourself be suspected, 
you are as good as hung.” 

“My mother, who was something of a sorceress, always 
predicted that I should die in the water. You see that I 
have nothing to fear.” 

“Go, then. Here is the letter.” 

“Is that all?” 

“All ; the rest concerns me. ” 

“The whole army is on its feet; when everybody lootvS, 
no one sees, ’ ’ said Conrad, and he took his way at a 
deliberate pace toward the camp. 

Just as he crossed the palisades on the side of the 
frontier. His Majesty Louis XIV. entered the 3amp on the 
side of Charleroi. 


CHAPTER XXL 

GOOD AND EVIL. 

It was toward the end of the month of May. Louis XIV., 
accompanied by his staff, came to take supreme command 
of the troops gathered together in Flanders. He wished to 
see, and still more he wished to be seen. His entire 


iso 


GOOD AND EVIL. 


household had followed him, the companies of the garden 
du corps and the musketeers, and there was not a single 
gentleman in France who had not held it an honor to 
combat under his eyes. All the sons of the best houses 
who had no rank in the army had come as volunteers, and 
there was everywhere a stream of magnificient cavaliers 
who ardently prayed for battle. The king’s entrance in 
the camp was saluted by a thousand acclamations. The 
soldiers carried their hats at the ends of their guns, and 
theory of ‘^Vive le roi!'^ rolled like thunder from Pan- 
delon to Massenal. All the regiments were under arms, 
and a thousand streamers floated over the tents. When 
the king approached the Chatelet, where the artillery was 
garrisoned, Belle-Pose felt his heart beat rapidly. He had 
never seen the king, and the king, at this epoch, was 
everything. He was God upon the throne of France. 
Every favor emanated from him, and his great renown 
formed for him a dazzling aureole. He was master of 
peace and war; Holland, like a victim, bowed to his anger, 
shivered at every step he made ; Spain was bleeding from 
the wounds he had given her; Germany was frightened at 
his ambition. He was in the midst of Europe like a torch 
or a pharos, splendid in repose, terrible in agitation. 
Master of himself as well as of others, Louis XIV. had in 
addition that royal air which commanded at the same time 
fear and respect. To see him was to feel that this was the 
sovereign. When Belle-Pose discovered above the white- 
plumed heads the hat of the king, he could not refrain, in 
spite of the orders, from rushing forward. Behind Louis 
XIV. thronged the flower of the nobility of France; in the 
first ranks were to be seen the most famous captains of 
the epoch, and the gentlemen most illustrious by their 
birth or their merit. The king rode slowly ; he had that 
imposing, somewhat haughty aspect, which ^he portraits 
of Mignard and Vauder-Meulen have given him; he 
saluted the flags of the regiments which were arched 
above him and answered by a sign of the hand the cries 
of enthusiasm which his presence excited. Dazzled by 
that sparkling cortege, Belle-Pose brandished his sword 
and cried, in a thundering voice, “ TVre Ze roiV” At this 
cry, which came from the heart, at the sight of that loyal 
and radiant visage, Louis XIV. smiled and saluted the 
enthusiastic soldier. When Belle-Pose raised his head, 
Louis XIV. had passed on. Three hours after, the king, 
accompanied by the principal offlcers of the army, took his 
way toward a chapel situated at Marchionnes-au-Pont. All 


GOOD AND EVIL. 


151 


the governors of the neighboring places had come to the 
camp ; his cortege was increased by their suite, in which 
was to be remarked a goodly number, of dames belonging 
to the nobility of Trois-Eveches, Picardy, and Artois. 
Their presence gave more eclat to these military fUes, and 
mixed the fascination of gallantry with this warlike attire. 
Monsieur de i^aucrais’ regiment had been designated to 
line the road conjointly with the king’s household and the 
Crussol regiments. Belle-Rose was in his rank. Behind 
the king, among the women of the court, one was the 
center of attraction. 

“How beautiful she is!” said a cornet of the Crussol 
regiment, leaning forward to see her better. 

“Vrai Dieu!” said another ofidcer, “for that woman I 
would give my life and my mistress.” 

“That woman?” added a third ; “sa3^ rather, that god- 
dess.” 

Belle-Rose, in his turn, looked in the direction of the 
ladies ; a flash seemed to pass before his dazzled eyes ; his 
heart ceased to beat, and he became as pale as a corpse. 

Madame de Chateaufort, proud and superb as Diana the 
Huntress, walked in the middle of the g^’oup. She still 
possessed that splendid beauty which gave her the aspect 
of a queen. Her sparkling eyes and her scornful lips 
attracted and repulsed admiration. Nevertheless an inde- 
finable vail of melancholy softened the somewhat haughty 
expression of her countenance. At this moment she raised 
her eyes ; Belle-Rose was standing before her. The red 
lips of Genevieve grew white, her long eyelashes were 
lowered. But twenty rivals were observing her ; she raised 
her purer than marble forehead and passed on. Belle-Rose 
was still palpitating under that humid glance, when an- 
other shock came to move his heart. Suzanne came behind 
Genevieve. The young officer wished to run to her, but 
an invincible force held him back ; Suzanne seemed not to 
have seen him, and nevertheless her lips trembled ; her 
profile had lost nothing of its angelic purity, but she was 
pale and resigned like the daughter of Jeptha. Madame 
d’Albergotti carried a flower in her hand ; in bending her 
forehead she touched it with her lips, and the rose fell. 
She wished to stoop* to pick it up, but she encountered the 
glance of Belle-Rose and hesitated ; she made one step, 
then two, and moved away. A second after, the flower 
had faded under the kisses of Belle-Rose. Rapid though 
this movement had been, it did not escape Madame de 
Chateaufort ; she saw it, looked at the woman who was 


152 


GOOD AND EVIL. 


passing with bowed head, and her heart told her that it 
was the mysterious Suzanne whose name had so often 
made her tremble at the bedside of Belle-Rose. The pres- 
ence of Suzanne at the camp was explained by the nomina- 
tion of Monsieur d’Albergotti to the governorship of 
Charleroi. As to Genevieve, she had followed her hus- 
band, whom a court intrigue had some time since stripped 
of his governorship, and who had hastened to learn the 
cause of his recall. After the mass and prayers offered to 
the God of armies, the king withdrew to his apartments ; 
the troops dispersed, and Belle-Rose, who had only one 
thought and one desire, took his way to the residence of 
Suzanne. His hand, concealed under his coat, crushed the 
flower against his breast; it had a penetrating odor which 
intoxicated him, and -its embalmed petals were like hot 
iron which burned him. Madame d’Albergotti’s residence 
was near Coule, in a place which might pass for solitary. 
Only six companies of dragoons were to be seen there. 
Belle-Rose turned a hedge which defended the approach to 
the house and pushed open a gate which closed the en- 
trance to the garden. A burst of half-restrained laughter 
stopped him. The garden seemed deserted like the house ; 
no one was to be seen, but the branches of an elder shook 
in front of him, and behind the trembling foliage he dis- 
covered the fresh and smiling face of a young girl. 

“Claudine!” he exclaimed, and his extended arms 
pushed aside the slight rampart which separated him from 
his sister. 

He had perceived Claudine first ; he afterward saw Cor- 
nelius. 

“Both together,” he said to them; “my sister and my 
brother. ’ ’ 

At these words, which united them in the thought of 
Belle- Rose, Claudine blushed. 

“Oh!” said she, with a smile upon her lips and with 
lowered eyes, “Monsieur O’Brien has scarcely been here 
two minutes.” 

“Perhaps your memory is slightly in delay,” said Belle- 
Rose; “but it is a soft error of which happiness alone has 
the privilege.” 

Cornelius extended his hand to the young lieutenant. 

“I shall no longer quit you,” he said to him ; “our two 
kings are allies, and our hands are united. My place is 
here. A soldier, I shall fight like a soldier.” 

But Belle-Rose had at this moment all the egotism of 
love; he also wished a little of that joy which Cornelius 


GOOD AND EVIL. 


153 


and Clandine were tasting. Like those talismans which 
light fever in the heart of those who touch them, the rose 
dropped by Suzanne had irritated his ardor. 

“Claudine, ” said he, quite low, to his sister, “is Madame 
d’Albergotti here?” 

At this name, Claudine’s face grew melancholy. 

“Yes,” said she. 

“Can I see her — speak to her?” 

“Brother, it is a bad thought ; but it shall not be said 
that I refused you anything on the day you returned to 
me. Wait here.” 

And, lighter than a bird, Clandine flew toward the 
house. Cornelius, with a reserve natural to the people of 
his nation, had withdrawn to one side. Belle- Rose leaned 
against a tree and closed his eyes. Clandine returned in 
about five minutes. She was very pale and held a letter in 
her hand. On seeing this letter, Belle-Rose lost all hope, 

“She does not wish it?” said he. 

“Read,” replied Clandine, and tendering the letter to 
her brother, she turned aside her head in order to conceal 
a tear which moistened her eyes. 

Belle-Rose broke the seal and read. He saw as through 
a cloud. 

“I saw you nearly a quarter of an hour ago, my friend,” the letter 
said. ‘‘I ran to the door, drawn by an irresistible impulse ; an un- 
known power has riveted me to the threshold. Since I met you on 
my way to the chapel, I have been like one mad. What prayers I have 
addressed to God ! All my strength has failed, and ’tis then your 
sister has come to tell me that you were expecting a word which should 
call you to me ! This word, I will acknowledge, my friend, my mouth 
has pronounced twenty times. And now I hesitate ! Oh ! I do not 
even hesitate ! No, my friend, you cannot, you must not see me 
again. You have the noise of war to aid you to forget ; I have nothing 
except prayers. Do you wish to take from me the only exile in which 
my soul can still take refuge ? Make a step, come, and I am without 
defense, and when you leave me, happy to have seen me again, I shall 
die. Suzanne.” 


On reading this Belle-Rose’s heart was broken; he 
pressed the letter to his lips and recoiled. 

“So frail of body and so strong of soul!” he murmured. 

Claudine passed her arms around her brother’s neck. 

“Come,” she said to him, “come.” 

As they were crossing the garden gate, a superior officer 
presented himself before them. He was a man already 
old, but who appeared still more so on account of his 


154 


GOOD AND EVIL. 


slightly stooping form and the difficulty which he experi- 
enced in walking. 

“Good-day, my child,” he said to Claudine, with a 
kindly air, and he saluted the two young people. 

But in passing before Belle-Rose, he looked at him with 
so singular an expression, that the latter could not refrain 
from lowering his eyes ; it seemed to him that this look 
searched the depths of his heart and read his most secret 
thoughts. After a short moment given to this mute ob- 
servation, the old officer entered the garden. Belle-Rose 
turned to Claudine as if to question her. 

“It is Monsieur d’Albergotti,” said she. 

And she immediately added, to dissipate a sad preoccu- 
pation : 

“A great joy is reserved to you, my brother.” 

“What is it?” said Belle-Rose, whose mind was else- 
where. 

“My friend, you are going to see again the honest old 
falconer whom I have conducted from St. Omer to the 
camp,” said Cornelius. 

Belle-Rose embraced Cornelius. 

“Guillaume Grinedal and Pierre,” said he, “but where 
are they, then?” 

“At the quarters of the artillery.” 

Belle-Rose ran in that direction, followed at a distance 
by Claudine and Cornelius. The falconer and his young 
son were proud to have an officer in the family. They had 
been w^aiting for him since morning, and as soon as they 
saw him each of them extended his arms. 

“I bring you a recruit,” said the old falconer to Jacques, 
after the first embraces. 

“Pierre, I imagine,” said Jacques, smiling at his 
brother. 

“Yes; he also wishes to become an officer of the king.” 

“Well,” said Belle-Rose, “let him take a musket; the 
musket leads to the sword.” 

Monsieur de Naucrais had charged Deroute to say to his 
lieutenant that he could absent himself till night. 

“Discipline and family do not go together,” he had 
said; “let him be all to the one to-day so he shall be all to 
the other to-morrow. ” 

While Belle-Rose, accompanied by his father, Cornelius, 
Claudine, and Pierre, went to seek a little silence and re- 
pose in a neighboring village, the Lorraine was prowling 
about the camp. After having acquired an exact knowl- 
edge of the localities, the Lorraine moved away. Conrad 


THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


155 


made bis way to a ravine near the camp, where he estab- 
lished himself for the night. He wished to be ready to 
profit by circumstances. About nine o’clock, Belle-Rose 
had separated from his father, to whom Claudine had 
offered lodging in Madame d’Albergotti’s house, and made 
his way back to his quarters. Deroute, who, in spite of 
his grade, had constituted himself the lieutenant’s regular 
guard, was promenading before the tent. 

“My lieutenant,” said he to Belle-Rose, “were you 
expecting some one this evening?” 

“No.” 

“Then some one was undoubtedly expecting you.” 

“What do you mean?” 

“It is very simple. A young man came an hour ago to 
inquire if you were at home. Upon my negative reply, he 
asked me if he could wait for you here. ‘It is an affair of 
importance, ’ he added. ’ ’ 

“And how did you answer him?” 

“That he was perfectly at liberty to wait for you till to- 
morrow, if it so pleased him. I had no sooner finished 
than he was already in your tent.” 

“In my tent?” 

“Where he still is.” 

Belle-Rose pushed aside the canvas which closed the 
entrance. At the noise of his arrival the young man, who 
was seated upon a chest, arose. It was Genevieve de 
Chateaufort. 


CHAPTER XXIL 

THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 

At sight of the duchess, Belle-Rose leaned toward the 
opening. 

“Deroute,” said he, “stay here, and no matter who 
comes, do not let them enter.” 

“Well!” said the sergeant, and he sat down in the 
moonlight upon the trunk of a tree, his pike between his 
knees. 

When the curtain had fallen back, Belle-Rose advanced 
to Madame de ChMeaufort, who was trembling all over. 

“What do you come to do here, madame, and what do 
you wish with me?” he said to her, in a voice which he 
tried to render firm and which trembled. 

“I come,” said she, “like a culprit before his judge. 


156 


THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


Oh!” she said, at the gesture of Belle-Rose, “do not re- 
pulse me; if your heart has condemned me, at least hear 
me. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘And what have you to tell me that I do not already 
know, madame?” 

“The whole truth; I will speak to you as a penitent 
speaks at the confessional of God. In pity listen to me. It 
is no longer in the name of your love that I call upon you ; 
it is in the name of justice. Have not the condemned the 
right to defend themselves?” 

Genevieve trembled so strongly that she had to lean 
against one of the pickets of the tent to keep from falling. 
The disorder and grief of this woman, once so proud, 
touched Belle-Rose. 

“Speak, then,” said he. “I also have a mission to dis- 
charge with regard to you, and I will take this oppor- 
tunity to discharge it.” 

“First listen to me, and kill me afterward, if it is your 
will,” said Genevieve. 

“Take care, madame, it is not a vain threat on my part. 
You have a terrible account to render, perhaps you are 
going to force me to avenge a dead man. ” 

“Avenge him? Oh*” said she, “you will not avenge him 
by killing me.” 

The expression of the look and voice were so heart- 
rending, the sense of these words was so clear, that Belle- 
Rose felt moved to the very bottom of his heart. 

“Speak!” he said to her; “speak! you know well, what- 
ever happens, that it is not I who can punish you. ” 

Madame de Chateaufort silently took the hand of Belle- 
Rose and carried it to her lips. This mute kiss travt^rsed 
the young officer’s veins like a flame. He felt his courage 
W'eaken, and disengaging his hand from the clasp of 
Genevieve, he made her a sign to sit down. Genevieve sat 
down ; her face was as pale and woe-begone as the marble 
visage of Niobe; her respiration was oppressed, and in 
spite of the precocious w^armih of the season, her teeth 
chattered. 

“Renounce this explanation,” Belle-Rose said to her; 
“I have only one question to address you — only one. Your 
answer will suffice.” 

“You shall know nothing, or you shall know all,” said 
the duchess, firmly. “You are my judge and my master; 
listen to me.” 

Belle-Rose knew Madame de Chateaufort too well to 
misunderstand the accent of her voice. Even in the sub- 


THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


157 


mission of this woman thei;e was something queen-like 
which commanded obedience. He was silent and waited. 

“1 was fifteen,” she resumed, ‘‘when I saw Monsieur 
d’Assonville for the first time. The wars of the Fronde 
were then staining France with blood. I was living with 
my mother, a Spanish woman allied to the family of the 
Medinas, in a chateau near Ecouen.” 

“I know it,” said Belle-Rose. 

“One evening as I was walking by myself in the park, I 
heard the noise of musket-shots in the neighborhood ; fear 
seized me, and I began to run in the direction of the 
chateau. All at once, at a turn in the path, an officer 
presents himself to me ; ffie was pale, frightened, bloody. 
‘Save me,’ he said to me, in a dying voice, and he rolled 
over at the foot of a tree. A short distance off was to be 
heard the trampling of a troop of horsemen. I rushed to 
the little gate of the park ; but it was too late — the chief 
of the band had perceived me, 

“ ‘Have you seen an officer?’ said he. 

“God inspired me with the courage to lie. 

“ ‘No,’ 1 resolutely answered, ‘I heard the firing and ran 
up to close the gate. ’ 

“While speaking I felt myself swooning, but my eyes 
did not quit the chevalier. 

“ ‘Then you are not afraid?’ said he. 

“ ‘Afraid ! I am the daughter of Monsieur de La Noue, 
who is a good gentleman. ’ 

“ ‘Well! he belongs to our party,’ said the cavalier, and 
he plunged into the wood. 

“When the troop had disappeared, I shut the gate and 
returned to the officer, whom I found upon the grass. He 
was busy stanching the blood which came from his 
wounds. 

“ ‘You have nothing more to fear, ’ I said to him. ‘If you 
can still walk, lean upon me, and I will aid you to gain a 
pavilion which is not far from here. ’ 

“The officer arose, and, after many efforts, we reached 
this pavilion, which was then inhabited. 

“Monsieur d’Assonville told me that you saved him,” 
interrupted Belle-Rose 

“And did he also tell you that I had loved him?’^’ 

Belle-Rose bowed. 

“His wounds were numerous, but not at all grave,” re- 
sumed Madame de Chateaufort. “With the aid of my 
nurse and her husband, who were devoted to me, I was 
able to conceal and protect Monsieur d’Assonville, My 


158 


THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


father was a Frondeur, and I^did not dare to speak to him 
of this adventure, not having at that time a just idea of 
this war. Besides, the mystery of our interviews pleased 
my young imagination, and it was sweet to me to think 
that I was playing for an unhappy young officer the role 
of an assisting fairy. My mother, who was of a soft and 
timid character, and who would have re v^ealed everything 
to^Monsieur de La None, of whom she was much afraid, 
knew nothing of all this affair. 

“Monsieur d’Assonville recovered.. He was young, 
spiritual, and handsome; beloved me and I loved him. 
He was still languishing and weak when I already be- 
longed to him. Which of us was^the most guilty — she who, 
still young and inexperienced, abandoned herself to the 
love of an unfortunate whom she had saved, or he who, of 
the innocent young girl, his host, and his protectress, 
made his mistress?” 

“Do not accuse the dead,” said Belle-Rose. 

“Ido not accuse, I relate. Soon, however, ” continued 
Madame de Chateaufort, “Monsieur d’Assonville had to go 
away. The war and the opposing parties in which my 
father and he served banished every thought of marriage. 
At times he escaped and came to see me at the pavilion. 
How many days of gloom were these hours of intoxication 
to bring ! Meanwhile my mother died, and the despair in- 
spired in me by this death revealed to me also that I was 
a mother.” 

As Genevieve spoke, two great tears rolled down her 
cheeks. 

“Poor woman!” murmured Belle-Rose. 

“Oh, yes! poor woman!” resumed Genevieve, “for what 
I was then, I no longer am to-day, and what I have be- 
come, I would not have been without that shame and that 
sorrow of my youth! The next day, ” ‘she continued, “I 
wrote to Monsieur d’Assonville; my letter remained un- 
answered ; I wrote again, I wrote twenty times ; silence 
and abandonment surrounded me ; I believed that he had 
forgotten me, and had it not been for my child, I would 
have killed myself. I was then under the care of an aged 
aunt, my father’s sister, rough and severe like him. My 
nurse alone saw me weep and consoled me. There was 
then- at* the chateau a young Spaniard, related to me on 
my mother’s side, who had obtained a safe-conduct to 
visit France. My sadness astonished and afflicted him. I 
soon understood that he loved me ; the unhappy have need 
of affection, and I was profoundly grateful to him for all 


THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


159 


the cares with which he surrounded me. Perhaps I was 
even more attached to him than I let it appear ; but my 
position called for an extreme reserve, and I never let him 
see how much I was touched by his love. We were often 
to be seen together in the park. These innocent walks 
were the cause of his death. One day as I was waiting for 
him in a path where we were accustomed to meet, he did 
not come. At dinner I was informed that he had gone 
away during the morning with a young man. A guard 
had seen them talking in a lively manner and then go 
away together. A vague inquietude seized me, and I rose 
from the table in a state of agitation which I could not 
subdue. When misfortune touches us with its wing, we 
have these kind of presentiments. An hour after two 
woodmen brought back to the chateau the Spaniard, 
whom they had found in a corner of the wood, his breast 
traversed by a sword thrust. There was no longer any 
hope to save him. When he saw me, he took my hands in 
his, kissed them, and died. Never shall I forget the ex- 
pression of his last looks ; they were so sad and so full of 
love, that I began to weep like a madwoman. It seemed 
to me at that moment that I also loved him and that I was 
losing with him my last hope.” 

“And the murderer’s name?” said Belle-Rose. 

“I found it out later on; as to my poor friend, he died 
with his secret in his heart and my name upon his lips. 
Three days after I received a letter from Monsieur d’As- 
sonville ; it was dated from Paris and informed me that, 
having returned from a secret mission to Italy, he was 
about to leave for England, where he was sent by an order 
from Cardinal Mazarin. He would not be gone long and 
begged me to count upon him. It was to be seen that he 
still loved me, but his language was more grave. Besides, 
it did not appear that he had received any of my letters. 

“This mission, which was to last fifteen days or three 
weeks, was still unfinished at the end of three months. 
My father had returned. My days fied like somber dreams, 
and at night I wept. My thoughts went from Gaston to 
Don Pedro — that was my cousin’s name — and I must ac- 
knowledge, my sympathies and my regrets were for him 
who was no more. He had loved and consoled me; the 
other had ruined me. It haj^pened one evening that Mon- 
sieur d’Assonville’s name was pronounced by a gentleman 
who was visiting us. At this name, my father flew into 
an unexpected rage, and I learned that Monsieur de La 
Noue had been beaten and wounded in an encounter with 


160 


THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


Gaston’s father. Monsieur de La None had been humili- 
ated in his pride as a soldier ; the wound was incurable. 
My future grew more and more dark; I did not wish to 
think of it and dream of it constantly ; I had hours of. wild 
gayety and days of mournful despair. Grief consumed my 
heart. Meanwhile, the Court and Parliament had con- 
cluded their alliance, and my father informed me that he 
had resolved to marry me to a rich lord of the king’s 
.party, and that I must hold myself in readiness. He told 
me this as he was about to leave. When I recovered from 
my surprise. Monsieur de La Noue-was galloping a quarter 
of a league away. Meanwhile, Monsieur d’Assonville in- 
formed me of his return, and the same night I saw him- 
again in the little pavilion. On learning that I was going 
to be a mother, he exhibited a joy so keen that my tender- 
ness was reawakened. He kissed my hands and wept with 
intoxication at my knees. 

“ ‘Then you stiil love me?’ he said to me. 

“ ‘Yes, ’ I answered, and I meant it at the time. 

“ ‘And during this long absence which duty has imposed 
upon me, has no one come to trouble your heart?’ he 
added. 

“ ‘What do you mean?’ I asked. ‘Have I not always been 
alone? For a moment I had with me a friend, a brother ; 
he has always been kind, tender, affectionate ; he consoled 
me, and he is dead. ’ 

“ ‘Will you pardon me, Genevieve?’ Gaston suddenly 
said to me. 

“I looked at him, frightened already at the sound of his 
voice. 

“ ‘This friend — ’tis.I who killed him!’ said he. 

“I uttered a terrible cry at this avowal, and I jerked 
my hands away from those of Monsieur d’Assonville; it 
seemed to me that I saw blood upon them. 

“ ‘Do not curse me, Genevieve,’ he said to me; ‘I loved 
you, I was jealous. When I came back from Italy, at the 
first inn at which I stopped in Ecouen, your name was 
pronounced along with that of Don Pedro. It was said 
that you loved each other. I became mad, and the first 
person whom I met in the park was he. We were young 
and both of us armed ; you know the rest. I left without 
seeing you. Alas 1 1 accused you, and you were a mother 1’ 

“He talked a long time, but I did not hear him. A con- 
fused noise filled my ears, my heart was wrenched and I 
fainted. When I came to myself, a child was weeping at 
my side,” 


THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


161 


“A child!” repeated Belle-Rose; ‘*it is with it that ray 
ruission is concerned.” 

“Eh!” said Genevieve, “your mission will he easy. 
What you wish, I wish. A burning fever riveted me to 
that bed of suffering,” she continfied; “to that bed where 
I had for my child only kisses bathed in tears. I do not 
know how long this delirium lasted; my nurse drove 
every one out of the room ; my aunt, steeped in devotion, 
barely saw me a minute on returning from the chapel of 
the chateau. I was convalescent when my father returned. 

“ ‘I bring you a husband, the seigneur of whom I have 
spoken to you, ’ he said to me, before having embraced me, 
and he presented him to me at once.” 

“It was the Due de Chateaufort?” said Belle-Rose. 

“Yes, Monsieur d’Assonville had disappeared since the 
scene in the pavilion. He had believed in my treason ; in 
my turn I believed in his forgetfulness. After a month of 
hesitation, 1 married the duke. Three days after, I saw 
Monsieur d’Assonville again; left for dead in a combat in 
which my father had taken part, he had owed his life to 
the charitable cares of miserable peasants, who had found 
himr upon the field of battle. His grief frightened me; his 
reproaches, at the same time bitter and passionate, melted 
my heart. He loved me, but I no longer loved him. We 
met then in a little house in the Rue Cassette,, where I 
had established my nurse. These meetings were turn by 
turn sweet and bitter to me; for him they were intoxi- 
cating or terrible. This life became intolerable to me. 
One day I informed him of my desire to break oft' our 
relations. He resisted. He offered to carry me away, to 
quit France, and to go to live at the end of the world with 
our child. Tiiis proposition came too late ; I no longer 
loved him. 

“ ‘You refuse,’ he said to me; ‘well, if I do not have the 
mother, I shall at least have the child. ’ 

“This threat reached my heart. Mj^ child was my life, 
my refuge, my hope, my joy. Its smiles lit up my despair. 
When I was tired of living, I embraced it, and I forgot 
myself. * 

“ ‘My child!’ I exclaimed, and I felt in me all at once 
that strength and*that energy which had so long slept in 
the heart of the virgin. ‘The child belongs to the mother, 
and you wish to snatch it from me. It shall not be, I 
swear it!’ 

“The next day the child had disappeared. Monsieur 
d’Assonville had not the time to devote to long researches. 


162 


THE'CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


the war which had just hurst out in Flanders obliged him 
to leave Paris, and I remained alone. My husband had ^ a 
high position at court. I was young and beautiful, I wished 
to forget, I wished to deceive the imagination. I accepted 
every distraction which offered itself to me. I soon ob- 
tained influence and I made use of it. It was not long be- 
fore I loved or thought I loved. I made of my existence a 
whirlwind ; I had every kind of success, I tasted every 
kind of pleasure; the women envied me, the men admired 
me, I w^as believed to be happy, and I was only mad. How 
many times have I not wept the whole night in my 
oratory, like a Magdalen at the feet of Christ ! And then 
the next day there were fetes and follies. 

“Oh, my God!” said Genevieve, sobbing, “I tell you 
all, Jacques, and you will hate me, perhaps despise me. 
I curse that time of errors. If my blood could efface them, 
I w^ould shed it drop by drop. Can it indeed be that I, 
the daughter of my sainted mother, have traversed such a 
route? My Grod I let me believe that you will pardon me ; 
I only ask for a little of that pity which you have for the 
unfortunate,” said the duchess, taking Belle-Kose by the 
hands, “and though you should curse me, I will always 
bless you ; yes, I will bless you because you have drawn 
me from that wretched life, because you have given me 
back love, youth, and faith ; because you have made de- 
scend into my heart a ray of joy and purity, because I 
love you!” 

Genevieve covered Belle-Kose’s hand with tears and 
kisses. Belle-Rose softly withdrew it. 

“Pardon you!” said he; “lam not your judge, and I 
cannot hate you.” 

Genevieve raised her arms to heaven. 

“Thanks, my God!” said she; “he has not repulsed me.” 

“You know,” she resumed, after a moment’s silence, 
“under what circumstances I met you. You have handed 
me three letters from Monsieur d’Assonville at the little 
house in the Rue Cassette ; one of these letters entreated ; 
the other implored and threatened at the same time ; the 
last only contained menaces. ” 

“And it is to the last one you have given way?” said 
Belle-Rose. 

“You well know, Jacques,” replied the duchess, with 
an accent of pride, “that fear has no dominion over me. I 
gave w’ay to this letter, because between the first and the 
last, I had arranged ^everything for my interview with 


THE CONFESSION OF A MAGDALEN. 


163 


Monsieur d’Assonville, and that at this interview our 
child was to assist.” 

“You would have done this, Genevieve?” exclaimed 
Belle-Rose. 

“I was going to do it, when I learned that Monsieur 
d’Assonville had charged an unknown person to represent 
him. This discovery made me indignant; I believed that 
he had revealed our secret, and I resolved to have by 
cunning, or force if need be, the papers which might com- 
promise me.” 

“Then you have suspected a gentleman so loyal as Mon- 
sieur d’Assonville?” 

“Alas! when one is accustomed to practice evil, one 
quickly forgets belief in the good. But,” Genevieve 
hastened to add, “in having you come to the pavilion, 
where I received you masked, my intention was only to 
oblige you to hand over to me the papers which stated the 
rights of Monsieur d’Assonville; sure then that he could 
not take my son from me, I would have given way to his 
affection. I was already tired of that adventurous life in 
which every distraction was tainted with poison. I saw 
you, you have saved me, you were young, valiant, gener- 
ous, and proud. You know how much I loved you at once. 
I saw through you as one sees through a limpid stream, 
and your valiant nature gave back to mine a little of its 
youth and its freshness. Oh ! why was I not a young girl 
then? I would have been worthy of 3"ou. Perhaps you 
would have loved me.” 

“Genevieve! Genevieve!” exclaimed Belle-Rose agitated 
by this outburst, “say, did I not love you?” 

At this cry a flash of joy illuminated the pale face of 
Genevieve. 

“You have loved me,” said she; “is it indeed true? Is 
it pity which causes j^’ou to say so, or is it the impulse of 
your heart? I have been loved ! I have had my part of 
happiness, and you will not curse me, and you will have 
at times my name upon your lips! What must I do, say? 
Your will will be my law; speak, and I obey. But do not 
banish me from your recollection. Wherever I go, and 
whatever happens to me, permit me to carry away a word 
which consoles me and elevates me. Jacques, my friend, 
your hand! my God! your hand!” 

Jacques took Genevieve’s head between his hands and 
kissed her on the forehead. 

“You' have loved, you have suffered ! may God pardon 
youi!’* said he. 


164 


A TEAP. 


At this kiss, an unhoped-for joy filled the heart of 
Genevieve. She threw back her head and wound her 
feeble arms around Belle-Eose’s neck. 

“My God! I no longer suffer,” said she. 


CHAPTER XXIII. 

A TRAP. 

The next morning, when Belle-Rose opened his eyes, he 
was alone. For one moment he believed that a feverish 
dream had troubled his imagination ; silence surrounded 
him, but a vague and sweet perfume with which the air 
was impregnated recalled to him the fact that Madame de 
Chateaufort had come to his tent. He arose somewhat 
troubled, and as he was seeking everywhere, expecting to 
see her rise from some direction, his gaze fell upon a 
faded rose w^hose petals strewed the ground at the foot of 
the bed. At this sight, the young officer covered his face 
with his hands. 

“Oh, my God!” said he, “yesterday I still loved 
Suzanne.” 

His eyes could not quit the poor, abandoned flower 
whose indiscernible perfumes mounted to his heart like a 
reproach. He stooped sadly, and picking up the withered 
petals, he placed them in a medallion, which he wore 
suspended to his neck. 

“Poor leaves!” he murmured, pressing them to his lips, 
“you are still sweet and fragrant like her from whom you 
come. ’ ’ 

At this instant Sergeant Deroute entered his tent. 

“There is a man here asking for you,” he said to him. 

“Do you know him?” 

“No, but it is to you alone that he wishes to speak.” 

“It is well; let him wait a minute, and I am at his 
service.” 

Belle-Rose slipped his sword into his belt, clasi^ed his 
coat, took up his hat, and went outr The Lorraine was 
'svaiting for him before the door. 

“ What do you want with me?” Belle-Rose said to him. 

“I wdsh to see Jacques Grinedal, lieutenant of artillery 
in the regiment of La Ferte, ” replied the rascal, who in- 
tended to conscientiously carry out his mission. “Is it 
indeed to him I have the honor of speaking?” 


A TEAI>. 


165 


“Yes.” 

“If that is the case, my officer, will you acquaint your- 
self with this letter which I have been charged to hand tp 
you?” 

“To me?” 

“Certainly.” 

“But there is no address.” 

“It does not matter; break the seal and boldly read; the 
letter is indeed for you.” 

Belle-Rose tore open the envelope. At the first words he 
recognized the handwriting of the Duchess de Chateaufort. 
The note only contained two lines. 

“Follow this man ; I must see you on an affair of importance which 
interests me and which interests you. Make haste ; I am waiting for 
you.” 

Belle-Rose looked turn by turn at the man and the note. 
The man sustained this look without winking ; as to the 
note, its laconic character surprised the young officer ; but 
this brevity even persuaded him that it was a question of 
Monsieur d’Assonville’s child. 

“Is the person who handed you this letter still in the 
camp?” asked Belle-Rose. 

“No,” boldly replied the Lorraine. 

“How long has it been since you spoke to her?” 

“Almost an hour ago.” 

“Then you know where to find her?” 

“Ido.” 

Belle-Rose called Sergeant Deroute and commanded him 
to get ready his horse. 

“He is ready.” 

“Go, then, and bring him.” 

A moment after Deroute came back, leading tw’O horses 
by the bridle. 

“Here are two inseparable animals, ” said he ; “where 
one goes, the other must follow. My lieutenant will per- 
mit the gray to accompany the black?” 

“guit yourself.” 

Conrad had heard the whole conversation. At these last 
words, he drew near. 

“The person who expects you, ” said he to Belle-Rose, 
“has strongly insisted on my bringing you alone. ” 

Deroute brusquely intervened. 

“My friend,” said he to the Lorraine, “the person who 
sent you knows that my horse is a surprising animal for 
friendship. If he was left behind, he would break his 


166 


A TRAP. 


head ; it is a murder which you would not wish to have 
upon your conscience. March; we follow.” 

Conrad reflected that a longer insistence might awaken 
suspicion ; after all, it was only two men against ten, and 
so he made ready to leave. 

As they were starting out Deroute called to a corporal 
who was passing by that way. 

“Eh, Grippard!” he said to him, “come sit down here 
and guard the house. If Monsieur de Naucrais or any one 
else comes to ask for us, assure them that we will return 

promptly. We go Where are we going?” he said, 

turning in the direction of Conrad. 

“To Morlanwelz,” said Conrad, who could not avoid 
answering this question. 

“You have heard?” continued Deroute, addressing him- 
self to Grippard. 

“Perfectly.” 

“Sit down, then, and watch well.” 

At three hundred steps from the camp the Lorraine 
mounted his horse, which he had left at a farm-house, and 
they pushed on rapidly in the direction of Morlanwelz. 
Belle-Rose had not made a league when Madame de 
Chateaufort, riding horseback, appeared before the lieu- 
tenant’s tent. She was clothed in a dress of green velvet 
which set off wonderfully her elegant and supple form ; a 
gray felt hat, ornamented with a red plume, shaded her 
face, and with the end of her whip she provoked a superb 
white mare which pranced under her and scattered the 
foam from its inflamed nostrils. Two lackeys on horse- 
back followed her ; each of them had a musket hung to the 
saddle-bow. 

“Hey, friend!” said she to Grippard, “will you say to 
Lieutenant Belle-Rose that a lady is here who desires to 
speak to him?” 

“I would certainly do so, madame, if the lieutenant had 
not gone away. ” 

“Gone away, did you say?” 

“Half an hour ago.” 

“Gone away without saying anything?” 

“A man came early this morning, handed him a note, 
and they have gone away together. Sergeant Deroute has 
charged me to answer that they were going in the direc- 
tion of Morlanwelz.” 

“To Morlanwelz? but there are Spaniards in that direc- 
tion !” 

“Spaniards and Imjierials,” said Grippard, 


A TKAP. 


167 


The eyes of the duchess fell upon a paper folded in the 
form of a letter which was lying on the ground ; nimble as 
a bird, she leaped to the ground and picked up the paper. 
At the first line she grew pale. 

“This is the note which was handed to the lieutenant?” 
said she to Grippard, in a trembling voice. 

“I think so.” 

“It is a piece of treachery!” said she. 

At this moment Cornelius O’Brien, Guillaume, and 
Pierre came up to embrace Belle-Rose. 

The duchess at once recognized the gentleman whom 
she had met in the antechamber of Monsieur de Louvois. 
fehe ran to him. 

“Monsieur,” she said to him, “do you recognize me?” 

“The Duchess de Chateaufort!” exclaimed Cornelius, 
bowing. 

“Well, monsieur, at this moment Belle-Rose is being 
assassinated.” 

At this cry, old Guillaume rushed toward the duchess. 

“What did you say, madame?” he exclaimed; “I am his 
father.” 

4‘I say that we must save him if he is living or avenge 
him if he is dead. It is to Morlanwelz we must go ; to 
horse, to horse, and follow me!” 

The duchess took a pistol from Grippard ’s belt, leaped 
upon her mare, and rode away, followed by the two 
lackeys. Cornelius, Guillaume, Pierre, and Grippard 
mounted some cavalry horses which were close by, and 
the little troop, excited by its guide, crossed the barriers 
of the camp. 

Meanwhile Belle-Rose and Deroute w’ere following the 
Lorraine, who urged on his steed without saying a word. 
At the end of a league, Conrad took a path to the left 
which cut through the fields. The approach of war had 
caused the inhabitants to decamp; the farms were devas- 
tated; not a peasant was to be seen in the neighborhood. 

“Where the devil are you taking us?” said Deroute to 
the Lorraine. 

“It is an interview in which prudence is necessary. The 
person who sends me would be in despair if she was sus- 
pected, ’ ’ replied Conrad. 

Deroute was silent, but he assured himself that his 
pistols were loose in their holsters. Those which Conrad 
concealed in his pockets were all loaded. They kept on for 
half an hour without discovering any one. Belle-Rose, 
absorbed by his thoughts, was meditating on the mission 


168 


A TRAP. 


wnich he was going to accomplish. The road followed by 
the three cavaliers crossed a small wooded valley. At the 
extremity of the valley a chateau was to be seen. 

“This is the place,” said Conrad, pointing out the 
chateau with his finger. 

As they were passing along a copse Deroute heard a 
noise of troubled underbrush. Conrad quickly turned his 
head. 

“Some boar is leaving its lair,” he smilingly said. 

Deroute slipped his right hand under his holsters, seized 
the butt-end of a pistol, and leaning toward Belle-Rose, 
whispered in his ear: 

“Take care, my lieutenant; we are in the enemy’s 
country.” 

Belle-Rose paused and looked quickly around him. 
All at once the hoofs of a horse were heard striking a 
pebble. 

“Oh! oh!” said Deroute, “here is a horse whose feet are 
shod.” 

The Lorraine suddenly raised his hand and fired a pistol 
at the sergeant ; but the sergeant had his eye upon him ; 
throwing himself upon the horse’s neck, he answered thie 
Lorraine’s movement by a similar one, and the two shots 
were fired almost at the same time. The Lorraine’s ball 
passed over the sergeant’s head. 

“Ah! my friend!” exclaimed Deroute, returning ball for 
ball, “you are too awkward for the trade you carry on.” 

The sergeant’s shot went through the Lorraine’s arm 
and struck his horse’s head. The wounded animal neighed 
with pain, reared itself, and left like an arrow. At the 
end of a hundred steps it entered a morass whose green 
water was covered with grass ; at the first bound he sank 
up to his quarters in the mire ; a violent dig of the spur 
caused him to rise ; he plunged forward, got involved in 
the mud and rolled over in the water. For one moment 
the horse’s legs were seen to beat the surface of the 
morass in the convulsions of agony; the hands of Conrad 
were stiffened as they clung to the saddle; a furious 
bound brought his head above the bed of grass which was 
stifling him. “Come to me!” he cried, in a panting voice; 
but the horse sank down, and the Lorraine disappeared 
under the water. All this scene had transpired in a min- 
ute; just as the two pistol-shots, were fired, a troop of 
cavaliers appeared upon the edge of the wood. At their 
head I'ode Monsieur de Villebrais. Deroute looked behind 
him ; three or four men Vv ere guarding the path ; decidedly 


A TRAP. 


169 


Belle-Rose and he were cornered. On the side opposite to 
the wood was a large rock. Belle-Rose urged on his horse 
toward it, and sure of not being hemmed in, he faced the 
enemy. Deroute was already at his side, sword and pistol 
in hand. Monsieur de Villebrais rallied his troop and ad- 
vanced toward the rock. There were a dozen cavaliers be- 
hind him ranged in a semi-circle. He rode slowly, like a 
man who only fears that his prey may escape him. 

“Yesterday it was your turn; to-day it is mine,” he 
cried to Belle-Rose; “I take my revenge.” 

“You steal it!” replied Belle-Rose, who prepared to sell 
his life dearly. 

“Agreed!” said Monsieur de Villebrais; “I will not 
cavil about terms. I have it ; the rest matters little to 
me. ” 

As he was speaking, there was heard the distant noise 
of a gallop rolling like thunder over the path. Belle-Rose 
and Monsieur de Villebrais looked in the direction from 
which the noise came. A troop of cavaliers was coming 
up at headlong speed, guided by a woman riding a white 
horse. Monsieur de Villebrais recognized Madame de 
Chateaufort. He paled and drew his sword. 

‘‘We take these,” he exclaimed, pointing out Belle-Rose 
and Deroute; “you take those, ” he said, addressing him- 
self to a scarred soldier who appeared to be the lieutenant 
of the band, “Burk; gallop.” 

Two-thirds of the troop followed Burk, who rode, saber 
in hand, toward the path. The rest followed Monsieur de 
Villebrais. But Belle-Rose and Deroute spared him three- 
fourths of the Way. On seeing them immovable for a mo- 
ment at sight of the cavaliers who were coming at fright- 
ful speed. Deroute had leaned toward Belle-Rose. 

“Let us charge these rascals!” he said to him. 

Belle-Rose and Deroute fell like a thunderbolt upon the 
band of Monsieur de Villebrais just as Burk’s troop and 
that of Madame de Chateaufort came together. The shock 
was terrible on both sides. Burk, who was at the head, 
seized Madame de Chateaufort by the arm as she was 
riding toward Belle-Rose. 

“Eh !” said he, “eyes like diamonds and gold around the 
neck! a double wind-fall!” 

“You touched me, I believe,” said Madame de Chateau- 
fort, proudly. 

And raising her pistol, she blew out the soldier’s brains. 
It was the signal of combat. Twenty detonations followed 
it and the swords clashed. At the first discharge, one of 


170 


A SOUL IN PAIN. 


the lackeys was killed and Cornelius dismounted. The 
superiority of numbers was on the side of the assailants. 
Madame de Chateaufort wrung her hands in despair. 
Upon the ground where Belle-Kose was fighting, she no 
longer saw anything except a group of men surrounded by 
smoke where shone the glitter of swords. Her frightened 
eyes were turning to heaven, when at the turn of the 
wood she perceived a company of cavaliers who were ap- 
proaching at a walk. Genevieve whipped her mare and 
hastened toward them. 


CHAPTER XXIV. 

A SOUL IN PAIN. 

Those who rode at the head of this company were mag- 
nificently dressed. In a second Genevieve was before 
them. She was quivering with anger and terror; the 
blood of the man whom she had killed had spurted out 
upon her dress, and her hand still held the smoking pistol. 

“There is a French officer here who is being assas- 
sinated, messieurs,” she said to them. “Friends or ene- 
mies, if you are gentlemen, you will save him.” 

The one who seemed the chief of the band made a 
sign of the hand, an officer rode away at a gallop with the 
soldiers of the escort, and Madame de Chateaufort fol- 
lowed him. It was time for this reinforcement to inter- 
vene. Deroute was wounded and extended on the ground, 
his leg under his horse. Belle-Rose, also dismounted, was 
defending himself with the stump of his sword whose 
blade had remained in the body of a cavalier ; his clothes 
were perforated in twenty places and reddened in three or 
four. Of the two lackeys, one was dead the other had his 
head split open. Cornelius and Pierre were struggling in 
the midst of three or four bandits infuriated against them. 
Old Guillaume was lying upon a soldier whom he had 
killed just as the soldier was going to strike Belle-Rose. 
Grippard was finishing poniarding a Swiss whom he had 
overcome. Old Guillaume was the only one who had suc- 
ceeded in breaking through the troop of Burk. The father 
had come to die near the son. The officer’s hussars sur- 
rounded the combatants and forced them to quit fighting. 
All were bruised and Monsieur de Villebrais’ face was 
covered with blood. At sight of the officer who caused the 
swords to be returned to their scabbards, he grew pale 


A SOUL IN PAIN. 171 

'with rage and threw his own upon the blood-stained grass. 
The Duchess de Chateaufort rushed to Belle-Rose. 

“Living,” said she, “living, my God!” 

And she fell upon her knees. Prayer half parted her 
lips, and tvvo great tears rolled over her cheeks. Belle- 
Rose raised her in his arms with passionate ardor. 

“So,” said he, “you will always save me. This makes 
three times I owe my life to you. ” 

Genevieve, overwhelmed by so many terrible emotions, 
leaned her head upon Belle-Rose’s shoulder and burst into 
tears. 

“Oh, my God!” said she, “I would like to die thus.” 

At this moment the Duke of Castel-Rodrigo — for it was 
he whom Genevieve had met — arrived upon the scene of 
combat. 

“Ah! ’tis you, monsieur?” said he, addressing himself 
to Monsieur de Villebrais, whom he recognized in spite of 
the disorder of his clothes and the blood with which he 
was covered. 

“Yes,” said Monsieur de Villebrais, who bit his lips 
with anger. 

“Diable!.monsieurj you have not delayed entering on 
the cami)aign, from what I see,” said the duke, in a tone 
of scorn. 

“I imagine, monsieur le due,” boldly replied the traitor, 
“that you have not confided these brave men to me for 
leading them to mass.” 

The Duke of Castel-Rodrigo frowned. 

“Besides,” added Monsieur de Villebrais, “it is sweet to 
me to know that we live in the time of chivalry. In the 
future, when I have an enemy to fight, I shall take great 
care to warn him of the time and the place, as did the 
valiant knights 6f the round table.” 

“Monsieur well knows that he lies,” coldly said an 
officer belonging to the suite of the Duke of Castel- 
Rodrigo; “he is not ignorant of the fact that in the time 
of which he speaks deserters were bastinadoed and traitors 
hung.” 

This officer, who possessed an. austere and pensive 
countenance, was the young Prince of Orange — the same 
who was to be one day William II., King of England. 

“Enough, messieurs!” exclaimed the duke; “I have 
given Monsieur de Villebrais permission to be accom- 
panied by ten or twelve soldiers everywhere he chose to 
go ; but I have not, that I know, abdicated my rights as 


172 A SOUL IN PAIN. 

governor of the province. Your role is finished, monsieur, 
mine begins. Go!” 

Monsieur de Villehrais slowly withdrew. In passing be- 
fore Madame de Chateaufort and Belle-Rose, he threw 
them a look stamped with an implacable hatred, rallied 
those of his men who were still unwounded, and. moved 
away. 

“Monsieur,” said the duke to Belle-Rose, “you are free; 
here are horses for yourself and your friends ; here is an 
escort for protecting you. There are no longer here either 
Frenchmen or Spaniards; there are only gentlemen.” 

Belle-Rose had scarcely thanked the duke, when a feeble 
sigh made him turn his head. His blood had congealed in 
his veins ; he looked everywhere fearing to see. A dying 
man half extended upon a dead body stretched toward him 
his suppliant arms. 

“My father!” exclaimed Belle-Rose, and he rushed 
toward him. 

Cornelius and Pierre were kneeling beside the falconer. 
A deathly pallor had effaced from their countenances the 
animation of combat. 

“I have lived more than seventy years,” Guillaume said 
to them ; “God has done me the favor to let me die like a 
soldier; do not weep.” 

Belle-Rose did not weep, but his face was frightful to 
behold; he sustained his father’s head in his hands and 
kissed his white hair. 

“It is for me that you are dying,” he said. “And 
Claudine and Pierre — but you should have let me be 
killed.” 

His trembling fingers parted the cloth which concealed 
the wound ; the iron had entered the breast, from which 
came a small stream of blood; the wound was deep and 
horrible. Belle-Rose’s features contracted; the elder 
smiled. 

“You speak to me of Claudine and Pierre,” he said to 
him ; “I confide them to you.” 

At this moment the eyes of Belle-Rose met those of 
Genevieve; he recollected the letter which he had re- 
ceived, the cause which had brought him to Morlanwelz; 
his eyebrows contracted, and he threw upon the poor 
woman a look so full of bitterness that she concealed her 
head between her hands. Meanwhile Cornelius had a litter 
hastily constructed wfith branches of trees; a surgeon, 
who accompanied the Duke of Castel-Rodrigo, bandaged 
the wound of old Guillaume; two soldiers took up the 


A SOUL IN PAIN. 


Iv3 


litter, and the sad procession took the road to Charleroi. 
Deroute, who was not dangerously hurt, rode his horse 
passably well. Madame de Chateaufort dried her eyes red- 
dened by tears and approached Belle-Rose. 

“Jacques,” she said to him, in a sweet and firm voice, 
“I have a favor to ask of you, not for myself, but in the 
name of the child whom you have sworn to watch over.” 

At this recollection, Belle-Rose was agitated. ^ 

“Speak, Genevieve, I am listening to you; but make 
haste, each minute is precious.” 

“I must see you, I must speak to you again on the sub- 
ject of this child. Do you wish it?” fixing a suppliant look 
upon him who had loved her so much. 

“I do,” said he. 

“Thanks, Jacques. To-morrow I will inform you where 
we shall have this last interview. Now, adieu.” 

Madame de Chateaufort turned aside her head to con- 
ceal a tear which trembled on the border of her eyelid, 
urged on her mare and disappeared. Some hours after the 
encounter in the valley, the funeral cortege entered the 
camp of Charleroi. Monsieur de Naucrais, forewarned by 
Grippard, ran to the falconer, who had loved and protected 
his childhood. In a corner of the tent, Claudine and Pierre 
were sobbing ; Belle-Rose was despondent but firm ; Cor- 
nelius went from Claudine to Belle-Rose, mournful and 
silent, Guillaume had the serenity of an old soldier who 
had always lived like a Christian. He was dying as others 
go to sleep. Guillaume recognized Monsieur de Naucrais 
as soon as he entered and pressed his head. He could no 
longer speak, but his loyal glance had still the brilliancy 
of his green old age. While he was retaining Monsieur de 
Naucrais, he made a sign to Belle-Rose to approach ; his 
eyes turned then to the son of Comte d’Assonville with a 
disturbed and supplicating expression. 

“I am his brother,” said Monsieur de Naucrais, touched 
by this' mute prayer. 

Guillaume carried Monsieur de Naucrais’ hand to his 
lips with so much effusion, that the impassible soldier 
turned aside his head to conceal his emotion. At this mo- 
ment a corner of the canvas was raised and gave passage 
to Monsieur de Luxembourg. The duke approached the 
bed where the old falconer was lying and gave him his 
hand. 

“Do you recognize me, Guillaume?” he said to him. 

Guillaume looked at him a moment, and a soft smile 
was seen to shine in his eyes. 


174 


A SOUL IN PAIN. 


•‘You have succored me in time of misfortune,” said the 
duke, “and I have remembered it. Belle-Rose will be as a 
son to me. I will not spare him dangers, and if God grants 
us life, he will go further than he has ever dreamed. ’ ’ 

The falconer carried the gentleman’s hand to his lips. 
On retiring, the duke gave Belle-Rose’s hand a cordial 
pressure. 

“Be firm,” he said to him, “a father is still left you.” 

The almoner of the battalion arrived during the night 
and recited the prayer of the dying. Everybody knelt 
down, and Guillaume, with hands joined, committed his 
soul to Him who loves and pardons. The following day, 
about noon, a soldier presented himself at Belle-Rose's 
tent. It was a page with a sly and determined smile. In 
spite of her man’s clothes, only a glance was necessary for 
Belle-Rose to recognize Camille, Madame de Chateaufort's 
waiting-woman. 

“My mistress informs you,” said she, “thg-t she expects 
you this evening, if you have an hour to spare her.” 

“I am at her orders,” replied Belle-Rose. 

“If that is the case, be ready this evening at sunset.” 

“I will be ready. Where must I go?” 

“Between Marchienne and Laudely, almost two leagues 
from here. But do not trouble yourself, it is I who will 
serve you as guide.” 

“Till this evening, then.” 

V Camille turned upon her heels and moved away. Mon- 
sieur de Villebrais, still more athirst for vengeance since 
his last encounter with the Duke of Castel-Rodrigo, had 
scattered his men and some others whom the allurement 
of gain had attached to his fortune, around the French 
lines, recommending to them the strictest surveillance. 
He himself, under the costume of a market gardener, had 
ventured even as far as the advance posts ; and he went 
and came continually along the paths like a wolf seeking 
its prey. About five o’clock, as he was standing on a 
slight elevation, he perceived Madame de Chateaufort on 
horseback, followed by a single lackey, and directing her 
course toward the barriers. Monsieur de Villebrais waited 
till she was some hundred steps from the camp, and leap- 
ing upon a horse which was always in reach of his hand, 
he made a sign to one of the men to follow him and 
launched himself in pursuit of the duchess, taking care, 
however, to keep the river between them to avoid obser- 
vation. Madame de Chateaufort followed the route to 
Marchienne-au-Pont. At a quarter of a league from this 


175 


A SOUL IN PAIN. 

town, she took a road to her right, gained the country 
around Laudely, and stopped at a hundred steps from the 
hanks of the Sambre, before a hunting pavilion whose 
door was opened to her by a species of guard. Monsieur 
de Villebrais, not seeing her leave, coasted the banks of 
the river, found a ford, urged on his horse, and traversed 
the Sambre. After having hitched his horse to the trunk 
of an old willow, he softly directed his course toward the 
pavilion, made the tour of it, and when he had recognized 
those within, he again took up the route to Charleroi, 
leaving his acolyte as a sentinel in the underwood. At 
sunset Monsieur de Villebrais had gathered together four 
or five of his men, and had given them a rendezvous at 
Laudely. Each of his followers was to go there alone. As 
to himself, he lay down in a ditch on the border of the 
road where Madame de Chateaufort had followed and 
waited. Meanwhile, at the hour agreed upon, Belle-Rose 
saw Camille advancing. She was riding a beautiful Si:)an- 
ish genet. 

“Are you ready?” the false page said to him. 

Belle-Rose’s sole reply was to leap upon a horse which 
Grippard was holding by the bridle. Both of them set out. 
They had not made a quarter of a league when they heard 
a cavalier flying at headlong speed over the route. Belle- 
Rose turned back, and, in the semi-obscurity, he recog- 
nized his brother who was only a moment r,eaching him. 
Belle-Rose gave him his hand, and all three, leaning over 
the croup of their horses, passed like phantoms. Monsieur 
de Villebrais arose, and a bitter smile lit up his counten- 
ance. 

“If Madame de Chateaufort delivers him to me, ” said 
he, “I can well afford to pardon her.” 

At the end of an hour he saw, among the trees on the 
other side of the Sambre, a trembling light. Monsieur de 
Villebrais applied the whip to his horse, and leaning over 
his horse’s mane, he began to search for the ford. He 
thought he recognized a stone which he had remarked 
during the evening, and he boldly threw himself into the 
water. 

Meanwhile Camille and Belle-Rose reached the pavilion 
of Laudely. The guard introduced them into an ante- 
chamber, where Camille stopped. Belle-Rose penetrated a 
second room, in which Madame de Chateaufort was wait- 
ing for for him. Pierre had seated himself at the door of 
the pavilion. Genevieve welcomed Belle- Rose with a sad 
smile. 


176 


A SOUL IN PAIN. 


“I have made this appointment, she said to him, “to 
speak to. you of a child who no longer has a father and 
whom its mother wishes to confide to you.” 

“In communicating to you the mission which Monsieur 
d’Assonville has charged me,” said Belle-Rose, “I have 
never pretended to deprive you of the right to see and 
embrace j^our son. Can we not together watch over him?” 

Madame de Chateaufort shook her head. 

“Yesterday such a proposition would have delighted 
me; but to-day ” 

The voice of Madame de Chateaufort was so deeply de- 
spondent that Belle-Rose took her hand. 

“Genevieve,” he said to her, “forget that you are a 
woman by recollecting that you are a mother.” 

“I can forget nothing, ’’ said she. “You wish us to 
watch together over this child. Alas! can we? When you 
see him smiling between us, what kind of a look will you 
have for the mother? Stay, Jacques, yesterday I under- 
stood everything. Misfortune pursues me ! When Monsieur 
d’Assonville died, I was there! When your father’s blood 
flowed, I was there ! The reproach to me in your looks 
was also in your heart, and now, whatever you do, the 
idea of murder will always abide in my memory ! Between 
you and me there are too many misfortunes ; there is your 
father, there is Gaston!” 

Belle-Rose lowered his head. Each word of Genevieve 
was an arrow in his heart. 

“You are silent, Jacques,” said she, “and I no longer 
pity myself. You have pardoned me. ” 

As this last word fell from her lips a terrible cry rent 
the air. Both of them trembled ; but this nameless cry had 
traversed space like a bullet ; everything had again become 
calm and silent. By an instinctive movement, Genevieve 
had drawn near Belle-Rose. 

“Jacques,” she said to him, taking one of his hands be- 
tween hers, “tell me at least that you will teach my son to 
love me? When he sees me he smiles at me; he has divine 
caresses for my lips ; he extends over my faults his inno- 
cence like a cloak ; his little hands cling to my neck, and, 
when he calls me, it seems to me that the benediction of 
God descends upon me.” 

Genevieve wept, her face bowed over Belle-Rose’s hand. 

“He will love you ! he will love you ! how could Gaston’s 
son fail to love you?” exclaimed Belle-Rose, beside him- 
self. 

Another cry more horrible still resounded. It was a 


A CITY WON. 


177 


funereal cry which did, not seem to belong to earth ; it 
grated upon the ear and chilled the heart ; the depths of 
space swallowed it up, and there was no longer anything 
to be heard except the soft murmur of the foliage shaken 
by the wind. The frightened Genevieve knelt down. 

“My God!” said she, “is it Gaston’s soul calling me?” 

Belle-Rose felt a death-like shiver run to the roots of his 
hair, which was moistened by a cold sweat. He rushed to 
the window and opened it. The serene night enveloped 
the country in its transparent obscurity; the breeze sang 
between the flowery branches of the hawthorns, and in the 
shadow of a hedge an amorous song-bird was to be heard 
chattering upon its nest. An invincible terror kept Gene- 
vieve kneeling upon the floor; she had the pallor of 
marble, her head thrown back seemed to still be drinking 
in the horror of this cry, and her hands twisted the thick 
curls of her floating hair. Belle-Rose sounded with his 
eyes the profundity of the night ; his hand had strayed to 
the guard of his sword, and this soldier who knew not fear 
waited mute and shivering. Another cry, a lugubrious 
cry, suddenly burst forth and was prolonged under the 
starry sky ; it was at once a heart-rending complaint and 
a formidable menace, a cry which congealed the blood. 
Madame de Chateaufort, mad with fright, bounded to the 
knees of Belle-Rose and clung to them. All at once the 
door was violently opened, and Pierre rushed into the 
room, his naked sword in his hand; Camille followed close 
behind him. 

“Do you hear, brother?” said, in a low tone, the pale 
young man; “do you hear?” 

Belle-Rose disengaged himself from Madame de Chateau- 
fort’s embrace and drew his sword. 

“Come, brother!” said he, and both of them hurriedly 
left the pavilion. 


CHAPTER XXV. 

A CITY WON. 

Madame de Chateaufort followed B_elle-Rose and Pierre. 
In the state of mortal fright in which her soul was 
Xdunged, what she dreaded before everything was to rer 
main alone. The landscape was calm and peaceful. The 
fields, bathed in a blonde light, were lost in a placid and 
misty horizon where shone above some sparks immovable 


178 


A CITY WON. 


as stars. At a hundred steps from the pavilion, the Sambre 
flowed like a stream of liquid silver, and nothing was to 
be heard but the soft noise of the water laving the foot of 
the willows. It seemed to the two brothers that the cries 
had come from the direction of the river. They were ad- 
vancing then in that direction, when a hoarse and breath- 
less cry passed above their heads and caused Madame de 
Chateaufort to bend like a tree beaten by the wind. A 
lugubrious silence followed it. Belle-Rose straightened 
himself up. 

“It is the cry of a drowning man,” said he, and he 
rushed toward the bank of the river. 

Pierre reached the sand as quickly as he, and both of 
them searched along the river. 

They had not made fifty steps when they perceived, 
near an old willow, a black body floating softly with the 
current of the water. There were moments when this body 
came to the surface, and others when it disappeared under 
the branches of the willow. 

“Behold him?” said Pierre; “his hands are clasped 
around a branch. ’ ’ 

It was in truth the dead body of a man clinging to the 
tree. Belle-Rose advanced to the trunk of the willow, 
while Pierre entered the stream ; leaning over the dead 
body, they drew it from the water ; but the inflexible 
fingers were glued to the branch, and it was necessary to 
cut it in order to push the body to the shore. Madame de 
Chateaufort was waiting on the bank of the Sambre ; when 
the wet corpse was stretched out upon the grass, in the 
peaceable rays of the moon, she was the first to recognize 
it. 

“Monsieur de Villebrais!” said she. 

Belle-Rose threw himself on his knees near the dead 
man ; it was indeed he ; the face was livid, and his eyes 
seemed projecting from their sockets. The young officer 
let fall the head which he had raised for a moment. 

“The heart no longer beats, ” said he. “May God have 
mercy upon his soul. ’ ’ 

Monsieur de Villebrais, trusting to pass the Sambre at 
the ford, had been deceived ; his horse, which had at first 
only sank up to its sides in the water, suddenly lost foot- 
ing; Monsieur de Villebrais wished to bring it back, but 
the current was strong and rapid at this place ; the officer 
abandoned the animal and attempted to save himself by 
swimming. Perhaps he would have succeeded had not the 
horse in its struggles struck him in the head with its foot. 


A CITY WON. 


which caused him to lose half his strength. It was then 
that the swimmer uttered his first and formidable cry. 
Monsieur de Villebrais struggled against the current with 
the energy of despair ; his head at times sank under the 
surface, his mouth filled with water, but when he had 
enough strength to do so he uttered one of those awful 
cries which chilled Madame de Chateaufort with affright. 

A last effort brought him to the old willow undermined by 
the river, his fingers fastened themselves to a branch like 
iron bands, and he wished to raise himself up to the trunk ; 
but the branch gave way, a cry of horror burst from his 
blanched lips, and his face disappeared under the waves. 

When Belle-Kose had assured himself that Monsieur de 
Villebrais was dead, he called the guaid and confided to 
him the body of the drowned man ; then he set out with 
Madame de Chateaufort and Pierre for the pavilion. At 
this moment the rapid galloping of three or four horses 
was heard in the distance; they were Monsieur de Ville- 
brais’ men, who, seeing themselves deprived of their chief, 
were regaining their quarters. Madame de Chateaufort 
found herself a moment after alone with Belle-Rose. The 
unexpected and terrible death of Monsieur de Villebrais 
had increased the profound sadness and bitter discourage- 
ment with which she had felt herself struck. Desolation 
was in her soul; she had seen Monsieur d’Assonville’s 
agony ; she had just seen the dead body of Monsieur de 
Villebrais; she saw before her Belle-Rose, pale and mourn- 
ful, grieving in his heart for his father’s death. She 
understood that the hour of separation had come, and call- ^ 
ing to her aid all the strength which was left her, she drew 
from her pocket a small sealed package. 

“Here,” said she to Belle-Rose, “are the papers which 
settle the annuity of Monsieur d’Assonville’s son ; when he 
sliall be of an age to choose a career, he can do it like a % 
gentleman. To these papers I have added a letter which 
gives to you every right over him. ” 

“But you, Genevieve?” said Belle-Rose. 

“I shall embrace him — it is the only favor which I ask of 
you.” 

Having said this, Madame de Chateaufort arose. All 
hope was banished from her heart. She approached Belle- 
Rose and extended her hand. Belle-Rose, without making 
any reply, took it between his. 

“So,” she resumed, “I shall he your friend, nothing 
more, nothing less — an absent friend, of whom you will 
sometimes think without bitterness?” 


180 


A CITY WON. 


“A friend whose name I shall cause to he blessed by the 
lips of a child/’ replied Belle-Rose. 

Genevieve’s countenance shone with a pure joy. 

“That is a sentiment which I shall carry away in my 
heart,” said she, “and which will console me when I am 
alone. Adieu, my friend ; may you find some day the hap- 
piness which I should have wished to give you ! It is a 
new life which I am beginning, and I begin it with repent- 
ance. ” 

Belle-Rose held Genevieve to his heart for some minutes, 
then feeling himself being overcome by tears, he snatched 
himself from her arms and rushed out of the apartment. 
A moment later he was riding toward Charleroi, accom- 
panied by Pierre. 

Two days after this occurrence the camp was raised, and 
on June 4th the army set siege to Tournay. Claudine and 
Suzanne had remained at Charleroi, Monsieur d’Albergotti 
having just fallen sick. His great age, the fatigues of war, 
his wounds, all inspired grave inquietude concerning his 
condition. In the midst of a city filled with soldiers it was 
to be feared that the old officer might not receive all the 
care which his situation called for : it was decided that he 
should be taken to Paris by easy stages ; there at least he 
would have all the aid tliat science could give him. 
Madame de Chateaufort withdrew to the city of Arras, 
where since his disgrace the duke had received orders to 
reside, the husband having asked his wife to aid him by 
her presence at the time of the official receptions and 
entertainments. Pierre, attached to the company in which 
Belle-Rose served, had followed the army to Tournay. The 
operations of the siege were actively begun and the place 
was invested on the same day. The efforts of the artillery 
were turned against a fort which commanded the place on 
# the south side. The besieged answered by a well main- 
tained fire the attacks of the French Army, and sought to 
trouble its operations by frequent sorties. But the presence 
of the king increased the ardor of the troops, and the time 
was not far distant when the city would be forced to 
sound a parley. To hasten this moment, it was determined 
to undermine a bastion, the fall of which, by opening the 
rampart, would constrain the Governor of Tournay to come 
to terms. It was an expedition in which there were great 
dangers to run, and which called for determined men. 
Belle-Rose, who was seeking an occasion to distinguish 
himself, readily volunteered. 

“It is well,” Monsieur de Naucrais said to him; “choose 


A CITY WON. 181 

your men, and if you succeed, you will be a cap- 
tain.” 

Toward nightfall Belle-Rose, accompanied by Deroute, 
Pierre, and four or five sappers, left the sunken road and 
approached the ditches by crawling over the ground. The 
first sentinels who perceived him fired upon him ; without 
giving them time to reload their guns, he started running 
toward the ditch, into which he let himself fall. Belle- 
Rose had provided himself with a sackful of tow which he 
had topped with a hat. Just as the Spaniards extended 
their guns above the rampart he threw this species of 
manikin into the ditch. It was already dark, and all the 
soldiers being deceived, they fired at it, with two or three 
exceptions. Belle-Rose jumped up at once ; those who had 
not fired did so now, but the lieutenant had already 
reached the other side and had lodged himself behind a 
pile of rubbish without other accident than a ball lost in 
his clothes. Belle-Rose’s men, stretched out in the depres- 
sions in the ground, were waiting for his signal to descend. 
As to Belle-Rose himself, sure of not being disturbed, he 
immediately began the sapping of the rampart and worked 
with such ardor that in less than two hours he had con- 
trived an excavation which . two men could occupy. The 
Sx)aniards kept on firing at him, but the balls flattened 
themselves against the stone or rebounded behind him ; 
three or four among them had attempted to join the miner 
by passing over the rampart ; but Pierre and Deroute had 
killed the two first; another, struck in the thigh, had 
fallen into the ditch, where he had broken his back ; the 
fourth had been shot by Belle-Rose himself just as he was 
setting foot upon the soil. After these attempts, so badly" 
terminated, the Spaniards prudently remained behind the 
wall. Belle-Rose whistled softly. At this signal, which 
had been agreed upon in advance. Deroute and Pierre ran 
to the border of the ditch. The one stopped the other. 

“Eh, friend, I am the sergeant!” said Deroute. 

“Eh, comrade, I am his brother,” replied Pierre, and he 
leaped into the ditch. 

Pierre joined Belle-Rose in the midst of the musket- 
shots. A ball scratched him close to the eyebrows. A half 
an inch deeper, and he would have been killed. 

“Eh, brother, they have baptized you,” said Belle-Rose 
on seeing the blood upon the forehead of the young soldier. 

Both set to work and pushed the task so vigorously that 
it was soon necessary to give a second whistle. This time 
it was Deroute who presented himself. The besieged threw 


182 


A CITY WON. 


fire-pots into the ditch ; hut the sergeant, nimble as a cat, 
had already disappeared under the sap. The whistles 
rapidly succeeded each other ; the wall was pierced ; the 
miners were still at their jios^ with the exception of one 
who had been killed by a shell bursting. This accident 
had infiuenced Deroute to raise behind the sap a bank of 
earth which would shelter them. 

“Here we are like moles,” said he, with that tranquil 
air which never abandoned him ; “let us dig. ” 

Toward morning they heard a hollow noise like that of a 
subterranean work going on. Belle-Eose made everybody 
stop and glued his ear to the sides of the mine. 

“Very well,” said he; “there is sapping going on in 
front.” 

“Mine and counter-mine!” said Deroute; “let us dig.” 

They dug so well that toward noon they heard very dis- 
tinctly the blows of the pick striking the epth. On both' 
sides the work was being carried on with eqiial ardor. 

“Quick, my boys!” said the sergeant; “after the shovel 
it will be the turn of the pistol. ” 

At the end of an hour Belle-Kose recognized by the 
sound of the blows that they were no longer sei3arated ex- 
cept by two feet of earth. 

“Lay down, all!” said he, extending his hand toward his 
miners. 

“Eh, my lieutenant, all, except me!” exclaimed Deroute. 

“You first!” said the officer, with an air which suffered 
no reply. 

Deroute obeyed ; but while Pierre lay down to the right 
of Belle-Rose, the sergeant placed himself on the left. 

“Now, comrades, put aside the tools and make ready 
the guns! With a blow of the pick I am going to throw 
down this piece of wall ; as soon as the Spaniards see us 
they will fire. ’ ’ 

“That is to say you will take all,” murmured Deroute, 
with a jealous air. 

“Yes, all or nothing,” replied Belle-Rose, smiling, and 
he continued: “You shall only rise after they have fired; 
but then rise all together and leap upon them. Attention 
now. ’ ’ 

Belle-Rose took a pick in both hands and struck. At the 
third strike the earth gave away, a large breach was 
opened, and the Spaniards were to be seen aiming their 
muskets. 

“Fire!” cried the officer who commanded them. 

But at the officer’s cry Bell-Rose had thrown himself flat 


A CITY WON. 


183 


on his stomach ; the discharge passed over his head. In 
the midst of the dusk and the obscurity the enemy had 
seen nothing. 

“Stand up!” exclaimed Belle-Rose, in a voice of thunder, 
and he rushed forward, followed close by his brother and 
Deroute. 

The Spaniards, surprised, were killed upon the spot or 
disarmed. There were ten of them in the vault. At the 
first fire only three were left standing. Belle-Rose hastened 
to wall up the opening with stones and rubbish ; he at- 
tached the petard, unrolled the match, and ordered* Deroute 
to bring back his little troop. When it had repassed the 
ditch, Belle-Rose set fire to the match and moved away, 
but not before having seen the sulphur and powder 
sparkle. Deroute was upon the side of the ditch, going 
and coming regardless, of the shots fired at him from the 
rampart by those leaving it. 

“Eh,” he cried to Belle-Rose, as soon as he saw him, 

‘ ‘ can’t ypu walk faster? ’ ’ 

“And you,” replied Belle-Rose, “can’t you stay farther 
away?” 

Both moved away rapidly, but at the end of a hundred 
steps Belle-Rose felt the soil tremble imder their feet. 

“Down!”' he cried to Deroute, and seizing him by the 
arm, he forced him to lie down near him in a depression 
in the ground. 

A frightful detonation resounded immediately ; a cloud 
of powder-smoke obscured the air, and a thousand frag- 
ments of stone fell around them. When they stood up 
ninety feet of wall was stretched flat; the ditch was 
filled by the debris and a large breach was opened in 
the side of the bastion. The garrison had decamped. A 
corps of soldiers whom Monsieur de Naucrais was holding 
in reserve rushed forward as soon as the mine had ex- 
ploded, and installed themselves in the fort without 
striking a blow. Monsieur de Luxembourg rode toward 
the scene of action, followed by his officers. As he was 
jmssing along he met Belle-Rose running toward the ram- 
X)art, his clothes in disorder, and covered with powder. 

“Ah! it is you, Grinedal?” said Monsieur de Luxem- 
bourg; “stop a second to tell me the name of the soldier 
wdio set fire to the match. ” 

“Eh!” exclaimed Deroute, “this soldier is an officer.” 

“Ah!” 

“And this officer is my lieutenant.” 


184 


A CITY WON. 


Monsieur de Luxembourg extended his hand to Belle- 
Rose. 

“These are actions which do not astonish me, coming 
from you; I will speak of it this evening to His Majesty, ” 
he said to him. 

The Governor of Tournay, seeing the city dismantled, 
sent a flag of truce to the camp; the capitulation was 
signed, and the city opened its gates. This first success 
excited the joy of the army, w^hich spoke of nothing less 
than going straight on to Brussels. Toward evening, and 
as the city was filled with songs, an order informed Belle- 
Rose that Monsieur de Luxembourg was expecting him in 
his quarters. The young officer went there and found the 
general in his tent expediting various orders. 

“Grinedal, ” he said to him, when they were alone, “His 
Majesty, to whom I have given an account of your excel- 
lent conduct, has permitted me to promise you the grade of 
captain. Your commission is ready for signature.” 

Belle-Rose thanked his generous protector and regretted 
that his father was not alive to rejoice over his good 
fortune. 

“But,” said Monsieur de Luxembourg, “it is not the 
general who speaks to you — it is the friend. The friend, 
Jacques, has once again need of your services and your 
devotion.” 

“Speak, and when you have told me what I must do, I 
■will thank you for having chosen me. ” 

“A man in whom I had placed every confidence,” con- 
tinued the general, “has just betrayed me. Perhaps you 
recollect him through having spoken to him at Witternesse 
ten years ago?” 

‘ ‘ Bergame ! ’ ’ exclaimed Belle-Rose. 

“Yes. He is about to sell for the sum of a hundred thou- 
sand livres some papers which he has in his hands, and 
wffiich I had left with him, believing in his honesty. If these 
papers compromised only myself and the Prince de Conde, 
I would hardly disturb myself about them. The king, in 
his sovereign mercy, has wished to forget everything. But 
they might injure people who have not been suspected ; 
nay, more, they might ruin them, if these papers fall into 
the hands of Monsieur de Louvois. ” 

“What must be done. ” 

“You must leave for Paris. ’ ’ 

“Quit the army!” exclaimed Belle-Rose. 

“You will lose fifteen days which you will make up 'for 
in a week,” replied Monsieur de Luxembourg, growing 


A DIPLOMATIC MISSION. 


185 . 


animated as lie spoke. “And besides, there is no one else 
that T know to whom I can confide this mission. ’ ’ 

“I shall p.” 

“You will stop at Chantilly, where the prince’s inten- 
dant will hand you a hundred thousand livres on the 
presentation of this order. You will afterward go to see 
Berganie, who lives in the direction of Palaiseau, in a house 
which I have given him.” 

“Ah!” said Belle-Rose, with disgust. 

“The house is to the right at a hundred steps from the 
road, before entering the village. Anybody you meet can 
point it out to you. Bergame does not yet suspect that I 
am acquainted wdth his perfidy. All the papers are at his 
home, in a certain closet which I know well, and in which 
I have concealed myself more than once in the time of the 
Fronde. A man who is employed by Monsieur de Louvois 
has learned of this bargain, he has recollected that he owed 
me everything, and has warned me. ” 

“Those are the papers you wish.” 

“By cunning or main force — it matters not which — you 
must get possession of them. ’ ’ 

“Oh! he is an old man!” said Belle-Rose. 

“Eh, morbleu!” exclaimed Monsieur de Luxembourg, 
“the old wolves have the longest teeth. Besides, it is not a 
question of killing him ; you pay the price of the treason 
and take the papers. Do you know that it concerns the 
lives of twenty persons?” 

“It is well ! I will have these papers. ” 

“Then you leave to-morrow. ’ ’ 

‘ ‘ I will leave to-night. ’ ’ 

“Go, and may God guide you! A first time you have 
perhaps saved my life, a second time you save my honor. 
What can I do for you, Grinedal?” 

“You will let me participate in a battle.” 


CHAPTER XXVI. 

A DIPLOMATIC MISSION. 

An hour after this conversation Belle-Rose left, accom- 
panied by Deroute. Monsieur de Naucrais had taken Pierre 
under his charge and proposed to push his military educa- 
tion. In order that Belle-Rpse’s absence might not be 
interpreted in an unfavorable manner, he had apparently 


186 


A DIPLOMATIC MISSION. 


been charged with a mission for Monsieur de Louvois. On 
reaching Chantilly, Belle-Rose went to see the prince’s 
intendant, w^ho counted • out to him the sum agreed upon. 

Having arrived at the house, accompanied by Deroute, 
whom he left before the door with the horses, Belle-Rose 
entered the garden by himself. 

“Monsieur Bergame?” said he to a litte boy who was 
plucking fruit. 

The little boy, who was pale and sickly looking, looked 
at Belle-Rose with a cunning air. 

“On whose part do you come?” said he, with an Italian 
accent. 

“On my own,” replied Belle-Rose. 

The little boy saluted him politely. 

“It is very well, monsieur, but Monsieur Bergame being 
very busy cannot receive you at present. You will have to 
come again.” 

“Ah!” thought Belle-Rose, “I am in for a siege.” 

Aloud he said : 

“Can you not say to Monsieur Bergame that it concerns 
a very important affair?” 

“For whom, monsieur?” said the child, with a simple 
air which concealed great cunning. 

“Eh, but for him!” exclaimed Belle-Rose. 

‘ ‘ Pardon me, monsieur, ’ ’ said the child, in a wheedling 
tone, “but it is generally the case that strangers who desire 
to enter always have important affairs to treat.” 

Belle-Rose felt like seizing the little rascal by the neck 
and gagging him ; but there were people passing along the 
road, and he did not know the inmates of the house ; it 
was no time to employ violence. 

“Come, ” he replied, with the air of a man who makes up 
his mind to speak, “since you wish to know all, take this 
louis for yourself and run to tell Monsieur Bergame that it 
is a question of receiving a hundred thousand li vres. ’ ’ 

At sight of the gold, the eyes of the little fellow sparkled. 
His fingers seized the piece like the claws of a devil-fish, 
and he requested Belle-Rose to follow him. 

“Knavish, but avaricious!” thought 'Belle-Rose; “one 
vice corrects the other. ’ ’ 

The child left Belle-Rose in a hall on the ground floor, 
climbed the stair- way which led to the upper story, and 
came down again two minutes later. 

“Follow me, monsieur,” said he to Belle-Rose, “Mon- 
sieur Bergame is up there waiting for you. ’ ’ 

The little boy introduced Belle-Rose into a square room 


A DIPLOMATIC MISSION. 


187 


where the falconer’s son at once began to search with his 
eyes for the famous closet of which Monsieur de Luxem- 
bourg had spoken. It was in one corner, behind a curtain 
which would have concealed it from one less well in- 
formed. Monsieur Bergame eyed Belle-Rose with the ex- 
pression of a cat watching its prey. 

“You have a sum of money to turn over to me, did you 
say, monsieur? or has the child, whose simplicity must be 
excused, erred in reporting to me your words?” 

“This child has told you the truth. Monsieur Bergame, 
and I am ready to count out to you the hundred thousand 
livres which have been confided to me.” 

“Very well, monsieur, it is a sum which I will receive— 
when you shall have told me why it has been sent to me. ’ ’ 

Belle -Rose did not mistake the expression of the glance 
which Monsieur Bergame gave him. The child was still 
present ; he might prove an embarrassing witness in case 
it was necessary to employ menace ; Belle-Rose resolved to 
get rid of him. 

“That is what 1 am going to tell you presently ; permit 
me only to go and get the money, ’ ’ and he went out. 

What he had foreseen happened. The child followed 
him. 

% 

“Deroute,” said Belle-Rose, in a low tone to the ser- 
geant, “while I am unstrapping this valise approach that 
rascal and gag him. ’ ’ 

Peppe — that was the child’s name — looked with all his 
eyes at the valise in which there were supposed to be such 
beautiful gold-pieces; Deroute tied the horse’s bridle 
around a limb and approached Peppe ; but Peppe, who per- 
ceived him from the ‘corner of his eye, made two steps 
back. 

“Eh!” said Belle-Rose, letting fall seven or eight gold- 
pieces, “the money is escaping! Come this way, my little 
fellow, and take these louis ; if you carry four of them up 
there, you shall have two of them.” 

And Belle-Rose, taking the valise upon his shoulders, 
moved away. The child threw himself upon the grass, 
where the gold sparkled } Deroute leaped upon him, seized 
him by the neck, and tied a handkerchief over his mouth. 
Peppe had not even time to utter a sigh, but he had enough 
presence'’of mind to slip four or five gold-pieces into his 
pocket. Belle-Rose, who had seen the whole affair, rapidly 
remounted to where Monsieur Bergame was. 

“Here it is, ” said he, placing the valise upon the table. 


188 


A DIPLOMATIC MISSION. 


“And Peppe?” asked Monsieur Bergame, whose eyes had 
opened at the silvery noise of the valise. 

“Oh,” said the officer, with an unconcerned air, “he is 
amusing himself by holding my horse by the bridle. ” 

The window of Monsieur Bergame’s apartment opened 
upon an out-of-the-way part of the garden ; he had not 
been able to see anything and had no suspicion. 

“Let us come to an understanding, ” said he, pushing 
his fauteuil toward the table. “You have come to count 
me out a hundred thousand livres, and I ask nothing 
better than to receive them, but still I must know the 
source from which this sum comes. ’ ’ 

Belle-Bose understood that it was necessary to play his 
cards well — to risk all on the first play. 

“It is an exchange,” he boldly replied. 

“Ah I” said the old man, fixing upon him his small and 
piercing eyes. 

“Money against papers.” 

“Ah! ah!” 

“The money is here, and the papers are there,” said 
Belle-Rose, designating the place where the closet was 
situated. 

“Very well; 1 take the louis and give you the papers — 
is .that it?” 

“Precisely.” 

“But, my good sir, still you will tell me from whom they 
come?” 

“Eh, parbleu! you know it well.” 

‘ ‘Certainly, but I would not be displeased to have the 
assurance of it. ’ ’ 

“Eh! monsieur, I am sent by the minister.” 

“Monsieur de Louvois?” 

“Himself. ” 

“Then you have a letter of introduction, some slips of 
paper with his signature. ” 

“A commission, is it not?” said Belle-Rose, without 
blinking. 

“Exactly.” 

Belle-Rose had just taken his part; while Monsieur Ber- 
game was speaking, the lieutenant’s hand had slipped under 
his cloak. 

“My commission,” said he, “here it is.” 

And he raised his pistol till it was on a level with Mon- 
, sieur Bergame’s countenance. 

“If you say a word, if you make the least gesture, you 
are a dead man, ’ ’ he added. 


A DIPLOMATIC MISSION. 


189 


But Monsieur Bergame took care not to cry out ; frozen 
with terror, he was trembling in his fauteuil. 

“Well,” said Belle-Rose; “I see you understand me. I 
well knew that we would end by coming to an understand- 
ing. What do you wish? A hundred thousand livres? here 
they are. What do I want? papers? I take them ; we are 
quits. ’ ’ 

“But, monsieur, it is a ruffianly act, ” murmured Mon- 
sieur Bergame, in a voice stifled by fear. 

“Ah ! monsieur, you are mistaken. It is a restitution. ” 

“Ah! my God! what is the minister going to say?” said, 
in a low tone. Monsieur Bergame, who followed with 
terror the movements of Belle-Rose. 

“Eh! my dear sir, you will tell him that you have woimd 
up the aif air with another. ’ ’ 

While speaking Belle^Rose had hurst the locks of the 
closet, and had taken possession of a package of papers in- 
closed in a casket. He threw a rapid glance over them ; 
they were letters yellowed by time and lists filled with 
names, upon which were to be seen the signatures of Mon- 
sieur de Conde and Monsieur de Botteville. 

“Done, ” said Belle-Rose; “you have the sum, I have the 
merchandise. Adieu, my good Monsieur Bergame.” 

Saluting the poor man, he went out, taking care to bolt 
the door behind him. 

“Deroute, to horse!” said Belle-Rose, as soon as he was 
in the garden. 

The sergeant’s foot was already in the stirrups ; they 
left at headlong speed. Peppe had succeeded in disem- 
barrassing himself of his bonds, which had not been diffi- 
cult as soon as he was rid of Deroute’s surveillance. His 
first care was to run to his master and deliver him. Mon- 
sieur Bergame, who dreaded above all things the anger of 
Monsieur de Louvois, at once ordered Peppe to set out in 
pursuit of the ravisher. He had the money, he would not 
have been vexed to get back the papers. Peppe, informed 
of the facts, leaped upon a horse and hastened after the 
two cavaliers. Peppe was an Italian, and though a child, 
extremely vindictive. Belle-Rose’s horse and that of the 
sergeant had made quite a journey that same morning ; 
they had not rested, while that of Peppe was fresh. Belle- 
Rose and Deroute had their spurs ; Peppe had his hatred. 
He reached them at the barriers of JParis. The little Italian 
followed them at a distance and saw them enter the house 
of Monsieur Meriset. When the door had closed upon them, 
Peppe ran to a place where he was sure to find some men 


190 


A DIPLOMATIC MISSION. 


of the police. Monsieur Meriset welcomed Belle-Rose with 
that soft and mysterious smile which was customary with 
him. 

“I have had a little dinner prepared for you,” said he, 
rubbing his hands. 

“Very good; but before tasting it, I would be much 
obliged to you, my dear Monsieur Meriset, if you would be 
so bind as to render me a service. ” 

“What is it?” 

“That of lighting me a good fire in my room. ” 

Monsieur Meriset looked at Belle-Rose with an astonished 
air. 

“Are you sick?” 

“Not at ad.” 

“It is that fire in the month of June ” 

“Make it, my dear host; fire does not only serve to 
warm by, it burns.” 

Monsieur Meriset did not understand Belle-Rose’s reply, 
but like a man who was accustomed to obey, he disap- 
peared. As soon as the fagots were ablaze, Belle-Rose 
mounted to his room, tore the strings which surrounded 
the papers, and set to work to burn them. At this moment 
a great tumult burst out upon the stair- way, the voice of 
Monsieur de Meriset was heard in disputation, and also 
that of Peppe. Belle-Rose rushed to the door and pushed 
to the bolts. The papers were all in the fire. In the midst 
of the noise made by the Italian, Monsieur Meriset, and the 
police officer disputing, Belle-Rose approached a window 
which opened upon the garden. That of the lower hall, 
where. Deroute had remained, opened just below it. 

“Hey! sergeant,” said Belle-Rose, in a low tone. 

“The police are here. Slip out of the house and be ready 
to fly.” 

“Are you coming?” 

“No; they are knocking at the door, and the papers are 
not all consumed yet.” 

“Then I shall stay.” 

“As you choose; but when both of us are in prison, 
which of us will save the other. ’ ’ 

“Well, I shall leave.” 

“Go and tell Monsieur de Luxembourg what you have 
seen. ’ ’ 

They were knocking furiously upon the door. Belle-Rose 
looked toward the chimney ; the papers were three- fourths 
burned. He pushed with his foot what were left in the 
fire-place, 


TWO WOMEN’S HEARTS. 


191 


‘‘Open in the name of the king, ” said a voice outside. 

“The shortest way would he to burst in the door,” said 
the flute-like voice of the child. 

Three blows with the butt-end of a musket answered 
him; the wood cracked, and the child, sure that the 
ravisher could not escape on that side, ran to the garden. 
Belle-Rose, kneeling in front of the chimney, was stirring 
up what was left of the papers. Peppe sviddenly showed 
his face at the window ; in one bound he reached the 
hearth, pushed aside Belle-Rose, and sought and searched 
between the irons. A cloud of ashes were scattered over 
the child’s face. Peppe arose. 

“Monsieur,” said he to the officer, throwing a viper-like 
glance at Belle-Rose^ “there is the man who stole the 
papers belonging to Monsieur Bergame. ” 

“Eh, boy,” replied Belle-Rose, “you should not lie; I 
have purchased what was for sale. ’ ’ 

‘•‘Papers which were destined to Monsieur de Lou vois!” 
replied the child, who had grown slightly pale. 

This redoubtable name, of which Peppe had already em- 
plo^yed the influence, again produced its effect. 

“March, monsieur,” said the officer. 

The gallop of a horse resounded in the Rue du Pot-de- 
Fer St. Sulpice. Belle-Rose smiled and turned to the 
officer. 

“Where do you take me, monsieur?” he said to him. 

“To the Bastile.” 


CHAPTER XXVII. 

TWO women’s hearts. 

Deroute never stopped in his journey from Paris to 
Douai, where the army now was. Monsieur de Luxem- 
l)ourg had pushed on in the direction of Belgium by way 
of Limbourg. Pierre was the first person whom Deroute 
informed of Belle-Rose’s misadventure. Pierre, on hearing 
this narrative, threw his musket to the ground with so 
much violence that he broke the stock. 

“Run to see the Irishman, I am going to see Monsieur de 
Naucrais,” he said to him. 

Monsieur de Naucrais thought of Monsieur de Luxem- 
bourg; Cornelius thought of Madame de Chateaufort. 
Tlie one knew the honor of the gentleman, the other had 
tested the heart of the woman. Two hours after, Monsieur 


192 


TWO WOMEN’S HEARTS. 


de Naucrais left for Limbourg and Cornelius for Arras. 
At the name of Cornelius O’Brien, Madame de Chateaufort 
gave orders to introduce the young Irishman into her 
presence. The duchess was in an oratory in which pene- 
trated only a doubtful light ; she was clothed in a long 
robe which concealed her neck and arms. A pale smile 
half parted her lips on seeing Cornelius. 

“What brings you?” she said to him ; “are you going to 
give me the joy of thinking that I can be of some service 
to you?” 

“Not to me, but to another, madame. ” 

“Speak!” said the duchess, who had Belle-Rose’s name 
upon her lips and dared not pronounce it. 

“Belle-Rose is arrested.” 

“Arrested! did you say?” exclaimed Madame de Cha- 
teaufort, fixing her frightened glance upon Cornelius. 

Cornelius related the circumstances which had preceded 
and accompanied this arrest. Madame de Chateaufort 
listened to him with clasped hands. When she learned that 
Belle-Rose had been taken to the Bastile, she shivered. 

“It is a terrible place, ” said she; “some leave it to lose 
their lives, others remain there to die.” 

“We must get him out, madame, and get him out alive. ” 

“Certainly, I will do all I can, but am I sure of succeed- 
ing?” 

“You? but you have already saved him from death. 
Y’ou will save him from prison, too.” 

Madame de Chateaufort shook her head. 

“I was powerful then, and he was only a soldier,” said 
she. “I have lost my credit, and he is now a criminal of 
state.” 

“He!” said Cornelius, frightened.* 

“Eh! you do not know what the court is and how the 
innocent are transformed into the guilty. You do not 
know Monsieur de Louvois; ferocious, violent, and im- 
perious, he hates those who wound him, and he is not the 
man to pardon Belle-Rose.” 

“He need not pardon him, but let him give him back his 
liberty. He will not dare to refuse you. ” 

“Perhaps not, if I were still young, beautiful, and 
powerful. Look at me and tell me if I am she whom you 
knew three months ago. I have left the court, others have 
come, and I am forgotten. Oh, do not say no, those who 
move around a king forget quickly !” 

“What must we do, then?” exclaimed Cornelius. 

“Attempt everything and pray God. I will go to see 


TWO WOMEN’S HEAKTS. 


193 


Monsieur de Louvois, I will speak to him and leave him 
only after having exhausted every resource. For sad and 
depressed though I am, I still recollect that I am Madame 
de Chateauf ort. ’ ’ 

At this outburst of a soul proud even in distress, Cor- 
nelius felt shine in his heart a ray of hope. 

“You will save him !” he exclaimed. 

“Oh !” she rejoined, “I will go even to the king if it is 
necessary before letting him perish. But stay, I would he 
quite sure of his life if some woman with credit at court 
interested herself in his fate. ’ ’ 

“A woman?” said Cornelius. 

“Yes,” replied Genevieve; “if women cannot influence 
Monsieur de Louvois, they certainly can the king. Mon- 
sieur de Luxembourg is compromised ; he can he of no 
assistance to us. A woman is our only resource.” 

“But you, madame?” exclaimed Cornelius. 

“Oh! I am disgraced — my husband is no longer any- 
thing, and even my name is no longer known.” 

“After you, madame, ” replied Cornelius, “I know only 
Madame d’Albergotti.” 

“Madame d’Albergotti!” repeated Genevieve, trembling 
from head to foot. 

“The friend of Belle-Rose and the protectress of his 
sister.” 

Madame de Chateauf ort had bowed her forehead over 
her beautiful hand. After a moment’s silence, she re- 
sumed : 

“Well! it is necessary for Madame d’Albergotti to go 
herself to see the king.” 

Madame de Chau teauf ort spoke with an extraordinary 
emotion. 

“Madame d’Albergotti is at Compiegne with her hus- 
band, whose condition has not permitted him to go to 
Paris,” said Cornelius; “so I have been informed by a 
young person attached to the marquise.” 

“In going to Paris to see Monsieur de Louvois, I will 
pass by Compiegne and first see Madame d’Albergotti.” 

Madame de Chateauf ort arose after these words and took 
leave of Cornelius. 

Just as the Irish gentleman was retiring she took his 
hand and pressed it strongly. 

“Count upon me, whatever happens,” said she. 

Monsieur de Luxembourg manifested much grief when 
Monsieur de Naucrais related to him the arrest of Belle- 
Rose. 


194 


TWO WOMEN’S HEAETS. 


“Ido not know yet whether I can do much, ” said the 
duke to the colonel, “hut believe me that I shall do all I 
can. I will see the Prince de Conde and come to an under- 
standing with him concerning this affair. The worst is 
that Monsieur de Louvois hates me. My name is a had 
recommendation with the minister.” 

“And the king?” 

“The king is waiting; he has not yet tried me. If I 
risked only my sword and my rank, I would not hesitate 
a moment to go to see him ; but I would expose Belle-Rose 
to all the resentment of Monsieur de Louvois without 
having the certainty of being able to guarantee him 
against it. As yet he is only a prisoner ; let us not rush 
things, for fear he may be treated as a criminal. But, I 
have told you, count upon me.” 

Madame de Chateaufort lost no time and left during the 
night for Paris. Passing by Compiegne the next day, she 
had Madame d’Albergotti’s house pointed out to her and 
went to it. Madame d’Albergotti quitted her husband to 
receive her. She seemed fatigued by long vigils and suffer- 
ing from a secret malady. Genevieve looked at her for a 
moment, seeking to subdue her emotion. At the name of 
Madame de Chateaufort, Suzanne had stifled a cry of sur- 
prise. Both knew each other without ever having spoken 
to each other. 

“What do you desire of me, madame?” said Suzanne. 

“Madame,” replied Genevieve, “an unfortunate accident 
has struck a person for whom you profess sentiments of 
friendship; Belle-Rose has been arrested.” 

Madame d’Albergotti paled at these words. 

“He has been arrested by order of Monsieur de Louvois 
and taken to the Bastile, ” continued Madame de Chateau- 
fort. 

Madame d’Albergotti pressed her hand to her heart and 
tottered. The cold chill of death had seized her. But 
Madame de Chateaufort was before her, and Suzanne 
struggled against her emotions. 

“I do not seek to hide the grief which this news causes 
me,” said she. “Monsieur Jacques Grinedal was my child- 
hood friend ; but however much I regret his misfortune,, 
what can I do for him?” 

“He is in prison, death threatens him, and you ask me 
what you can do for him?” exclaimed the duchess. 

Suzanne looked at Madame de Chateaufort and waited. 

“But you can save himP’ said Genevieve. 


TWO WOMEN’S HEAKTS. 


195 


“How can I do it? Speak, and if honor permits me, I am 
ready.” 

“You have been presented to the king, have you not?” 
continued Madame de Chateaufort, rapidly. 

“I was presented to him at Charleroi by Monsieur d’Al- 
bergotti.” 

“His Majesty, they say, holds the marquis in high es- 
teem.” 

“His Majesty has given him the assurance of it by 
giving him the government of a considerable place.” 

“Well, madame, Belle-Rose’s life is in the hands of the 
king, and he alone can snatch it from the hands of Mon- 
sieur de Louvois. Run to Lille and obtain his intervention 
between Belle-Rose and the minister.” 

Suzanne felt her heart breaking. She saw Belle-Rose’s 
pardon dependent upon her decision and remained mute. 

“He is at the Bastile! what are you waiting for, 
madame?” said Genevieve. 

“Monsieur d’Albergotti is here,” said Suzanne, in a 
dying voice. 

“He loves you, and you hesitate!” 

“It is because he loves me that I hesitate!” ex- 
claimed Suzanne; “I must remain worthy of that love. 
He himself would repulse me if I left this house where 
honor detains me. If I were free, I would be near him ; 
married, I remain where my husband is.” 

“This, then, is the way you love, my God!” exclaimed 
Genevieve, with hands extended toward heaven. “If he 
had loved me as he loves you, I would have forgotten 
everything. ” 

“Each has his heart,” said Suzanne; “God sees us and 
God judges us.” 

“Oh! you have never loved him.” 

“I have not loved him !” exclaimed Suzanne, who was 
wringing her hands in despair; “but do you know that 
since my childhood this heart has had no pulsation which 
has not been his, that I exist only through his memory, 
that I love him so profoundly that I should not wish to 
bring him a life in which the shadow of a fault had passed, 
a soul which the breath of evil had tarnished. You say 
that I do not love him ; he has loved and I have suffered ; 
he has forgotten and I have recollected ! I live in my 
house as in a cloister. I pray and I weep — I am in the 
world as if I did not exist. My life flows away between 
God whom I invoke and a sick man whom I console. I 
have neither joy, rei)ose, nor contentment. I have made 


196 


THE ARGUMENTS OF A MINISTER. 


of marriage a tomb, and you «ay that I do not love him !” 

Never had Suzanne spoken with this exaltation ; Gene- 
vieve .looked at her with surprise, and felt touched even to 
tears at the aspect of that countenance in which were re- 
flected all the sacriflces of a soul a moment unvailed. 
Genevieve fell to her knees. 

“You love him ! you love him ! my God ! What am I be- 
side you?” 

When Suzanne returned to Monsieur d’Albergotti she 
was very pale, and her reddened eyes still preserved the 
traces of the tears which she had shed. 

Meanwhile Madame de Chateaufort pushed straight on 
to Paris. She descended from the carriage only to mount 
to Monsieur de Louvois’ room. At the first words which 
she uttered touching on the affair which had brought her 
to Paris, the minister stopped her. 

“Belle-Rose owes you his life once already. He shall not 
owe you anything else.” 

Madame de Chateaufort let escape a gesture of astonish- 
ment. 

“Oh!” continued Monsieur de Louvois, “memory is one 
of the requirements of my profession. I forget nothing. 
Belle-Rose’s new crime is not one of those for which a 
man is beheaded, but it is sufficient to detain him in 
prison the rest of his life. He is at the Bastile — he shall 
stay there.” 


CHAPTER XXVHI. 

THE ARGUMENTS OF A MINISTER. 

After the accustomed formalities which preceded the 
incarceration of a prisoner in the Bastile, Belle-Rose had 
been taken to a room which had a view giving upon the 
Faubourg St. Antoine. He heard the bolts close and found 
himself alone. When night came the profoundest obscurity 
enveloped him ; it was with difficulty that he recognized, 
by the pale light which came from it, the place where the 
window opened. It was narrow and provided with stout 
iron bars. At a musket-shot below, the little houses of the 
Faubourg St. Antoine showed their roofs. Here and there, 
in the midst of the shadows shone immovable lights which 
were located in these houses. Belle-Rose leaned against 
the window-sill, and looked at that corner of the great 
city from which mounted still a little of that murmur 


THE ARGUMENTS OF A MINISTER. 


197 


■which floats unceasingly over Paris. One of the lights dis- 
appeared, then another, then still another. Presently only 
three or four were to be distinguished which shone like 
stars fallen from heaven. While Belle-Rose w’as contem- 
idating them, an indefinable emotion penetrated his heart ; 
it seemed to him that these lights were the images of 
those whom he had known. One of those radiant sparks 
suddenly carried away by an invisible hand, recalled to 
him Monsieur d’Assonville killed in the prime of life; a 
red light, which brusquely disappeared in the sinister 
folds of the night, made him recollect Monsieur de Ville- 
brais and the funereal hour which had sounded his death ; 
farther still, a soft and trembling light, slowly eclipsed 
behind a thick curtain, made him think of his father, 
whose life had been so honest and whose death had been 
so loyal. 

As he was meditating thus, he heard the bolts of his cell 
creak ; the door opened, the red light of a torch illumined 
his room, and Belle-Rose saw, on turning round, the lieu- 
tenant of the Bastile preceded by a turnkey and followed 
by three or four soldiers. 

“Monsieur,” the officer said to him, “I have an order to 
bring you to the council-room where the governor is ex- 
pecting you.” 

“I follow you,” replied Belle-Rose. 

His escort threaded a long corridor, at the end of which 
they descended a stair-way which led to an interior court 
of the Bastile. They traversed it, passed under a porch, 
mounted another stair-way and stopped before a vaulted 
room which adjoined the military lodgings of the gov- 
ernor. The governor was standing near a personage un- 
known to Belle-Rose, but who seemed all-powerful, judg- 
ing from the respectful manner with which the governor 
spoke to him. When Belle-Rose was introduced, this per- 
sonage turned toward him. From the description given 
him while in the army, Belle-Rose recognized Monsieur de 
Louvois. The redoubtable minister fixed upon him a 
piercing look as if he had wished to read the very depth of 
his heart. Belle-Rose waited with head elevated and glance 
firm. 

“Approach, monsieur, ” the minister said to him. 

Belle-Rose made a step 'forward. 

“Is it indeed you who have gone this morning to Mon- 
sieur Bergame’s?” continued Monsieur de Louvois. 

“I am the man.” 


198 


THE ARGUMENTS OF A MINISTER. 


“You have taken from him papers which were destined 
to me?” 

“I have paid for papers which were for sale.” 

“But I had purchased these papers?” 

“In a similar affair, the thing belongs to him who pre- 
sents himself first.” 

“Eh, monsieur, you have some audacity,” said the min- 
ister, ironically; “but I will know how to draw from you 
what I wish.” 

“That depends on what you wish.” 

There was a moment’s silence, during which the two 
interlocutors examined each other. Monsieur de Louvois 
was the first to break it. 

“You have burned these papers, monsieur?” 

“Yes, monsiegneur. 

“All?” 

“All.” 

“Did you learn their contents?” 

“No, monseigneur.” 

“But you suspected, then, what they contained, since 
you have made such haste to secure their disappearance. ’ ’ 

“I might suppose at least that they had some import- 
ance, seeing the haste with which I was pursued.” 

“And you are not deceived. You would not be here were 
it not the case.” 

“I slightly suspect it.” 

“A word can draw you from it, monsieur.” 

“Only one, monseigneur?” 

“Only one. You see that my conditions are light. ” 

“Eh! monseigneur, there are words which are worth 
heads.” 

“Take care, also, that silence does not endanger yours.” 

Monsieur de Louvois was getting angry; as to Belle- 
Rose, he lost nothing of his calm and proud tranquillity. 

“Let us dismiss that!” resumed the minister, “the 
question is whether or not you wish to save your head.” 

“Is it threatened, monseigneur?” 

“More, perhaps, than you think.” 

“And all this because I have paid a hundred thousand 
livres for those papers which I have not read. Blood for 
ink, you are lavish, monseigneur.” 

“A word can save 3^011,” said Monsieur de Louvois, who 
could hardly restrain his anger. 

“And what is the word?” 

“The name of the person for whom you carried off these 
papers, ” 


ME AUGUMENTS OE A MINISTEB. 


199 


Belle-Rfose did not reply. 

“Have you heard me, monsieur?” exclaimed the min- 
ister. 

“Perfectly.” 

“Why do you not speak, then?” 

“The truth is that it is impossible for me to do so.” 

“And why?” 

“If I told you that I have taken them for myself and of 
my own volition, would you believe me?” 

“Certainly not.” 

“Then you think I am the repository of a person who 
has placed his confidence in me. To speak would be a 
cowardice which you would not seriously propose to me; 
you see, then, monseigneur, that I ought to be silent.” 

“This is all you have to say?” 

“You should be convinced of it by this time.” 

“I might believe it, monsieur, did we not have here 
marvelous instruments for snatching words from those 
who are most mute.” 

“Try,” said Belle-Rose, and he crossed his arms upon 
his breast. 

Monsieur de Louvois looked at him a moment without 
speaking, and then arose. Upon a sign of his hand, the 
officer who had brought Belle-Rose took him back to his 
cell. When they were alone, the governor of the Bastile 
approached Monsieur de Louvois. 

“Hold, monseigneur,” he said to him, “I know some- 
thing about faces. That is a young man whom we will not 
succeed in making speak. He will die; that is all.” 

“We shall see,” murmured Monsieur de Louvois. 

Scarcely had Belle-Rose been recommitted to his cell 
than he ran to the window. Far away in the shadows of 
the night some lights were still shining. Belle-Rose went 
to sleep, calm and smiling. The next day was passed 
without any new incident coming to disturb the prisoner 
in his meditations. About the dinner hour a turnkey 
slipped into his hand a slip of paper and moved away, his 
finger upon his lips. Belle-Rose opened the paper and 
found only these words, “A friend is watching over you.” 
At the first glance he recognized the handw^riting of Gene- 
vieve. 

“Poor woman!” said he, between two sighs, “she recol- 
lects, and it is of Suzanne I am thinking.” 

When night had come, Belle-Rose approached the win- 
dow, and as on the evening before, he began to count the 
trembling lights which shone in the darkness. For an 


200 


THE AKGX.MENTS OF A AIINISTER. 


hour or two he had been absorbed in this mute contempla- 
tion, when he heard footsteps in the corridor which bor- 
dered on his cell. The same officer who had come the 
evening before advanced toward him, and in a grave voice 
asked him if he were disposed to follow him. Belle-Rose, 
for sole reply, walked toward the door. This evening the 
escort took a diiferent route from that which it had fol- 
lowed the first time. After having threaded several som- 
ber corridors, traversed black vaults where the footsteps 
of the soldiers reverberated by the echoes sounded in ca- 
dence, mounted and descended divers narrow and funereal 
stair-ways, they entered an oblong hall which was lit up 
by four flambeaux attached to the walls. A clerk was 
seated before a little table, on which was to be seen all 
that which were necessary for writing. Along the sides 
there shone in the red light of the torches sinister instru- 
ments of a strange form. At the foot of the wall were 
wooden horses, chains, and pincers ; a chafing-dish w^as 
burning in an obscure recess, oak planks and mallets 
stained with blood were heaped together in one corner 
along with cords and wedges. Near the clerk was seated a 
man dressed in black, whom Belle-Rose took for a phy- 
sician. The governor of the Bastile, sad and grave, was 
finishing reading a letter, two steps from the table. On 
the arrival of Belle-Rose, the governor crumpled up the 
letter, pushed a chair near the clerk’s table, and sat down, 
after having saluted the prisoner. From the preparations 
he saw, Belle-Rose understood that the hour had come ; he 
recommended his soul to God, murmured the name of 
Suzanne as he would have done a prayer, and waited. 

“You heard yesterday what Monsieur de Louvois said to 
you, monsieur, ” the governor said to him; “do you still 
persist in your refusal to make knowm the name of the 
person who charged you with carrying off Monsieur Ber- 
game’s papers?” 

“Ido.” 

“I must warn you that I have received orders to employ 
against you the means of which the law authorizes the use 
if you continue to keep silent. ’ ’ 

“You will do your duty, monsieur; I will endeavor to do 
mine.” 

The governor was silent for some minutes ; the clerk was 
writing down the replies. 

“Therefore, monsieur, you have nothing more to de- 
clare?” said the governor. 

“Nothing.” 


THE ARGUMENTS OF A MINISTER. 


201 


“Let your will be done.” 

The governor made a sign to two men whom Belle-Rose 
had not remarked, and who had remained up to this mo- 
ment in an obscure corner of the hall. These two men 
seized the prisoner and began to undress him. When he 
no longer had anything on except his trousers and his 
shirt, they extended him upon a sort of long chair ; his 
arms were tied to the rounds of the chair, and the physi- 
cian approached the patient. Belle-Rose had not made the 
least resistance to all this. When he was half stretched 
out upon the chair the governor asked him if he still per- 
sisted in his refusal.' 

“I cannot desert at the moment of combat,” Belle-Rose 
answered him, with a pale smile. 

“Then the order must be executed,” said the governor. 

One of the torturers brought near the chair two large 
buckets full of water, filled a pint cup, and advanced it to 
the patient’s lips. 

“Ah!” said Belle-Rose, “it is the torture of water.” 

“Yes, monsieur,” said the physician, “it sometimes 
kills, but if one escapes it, one is not mutilated.” 

Belle-Rose thanked the governor by a look and swal- 
lowed the pint of water. A second one was presented to 
him, but he could not drink it all. One of the assistants 
laid his head back and emptied the pint even to the last 
drop. Belle-Rose trembled. 

“We are ready to receive your confessions, monsieur,” 
the governor said; “do you wish to speak?” 

A third pint was raised to the height of Belle-Rose’s 
lips, he drank a few swallows, but his teeth came together 
by a convulsive movement, and the water fiowed over his 
naked breast. 

“Do you still persist in your silence, monsieur?” inter- 
rupted the governor. 

“Yes,” said Belle-Rose, in a choking voice. 

One of the torturers half parted his lips by the aid of a 
piece of iron, introduced into Belle-Rose’s mouth the neck 
of a funnel, and poured down another pint. Belle-Rose 
grew horribly pale ; his fingers clasped the wood, and with 
a shock, extorted by grief, he shook the chair upon which 
he was tied. Another pint of water disappeared in the 
funnel, then still another. Great drops of sweat rolled 
down the patient’s forehead, his eyes became blood-shot, 
and his cheeks took on a bluish tinge. The governor re- 
iterated his question ; Belle-Rose could still hear, but no 
longer being able to reply, he made a negative sign of the 


202 


WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. 


head. The funnel was filled again. A violent convulsion 
agitated the body of the patient, he uttered a hollow cry, 
stiffened his limbs, broke the bonds which bound one of 
his arms, seized the funnel, crushed it between his fingers, 
and, overwhelmed by suffering, fell back fainting upon 
the chair. The physician, who had been consulting Belle- 
Rose’s pulse, placed his hand upon the patient’s heart. 

“Well?” asked the governor. 

“Eh!” said the physician, “he is a vigorous subject. He 
could still be made to swallow one or two pints ; but at the 
third he would run the risk of dying.” 

The valets got ready the funnel and buckets. 

“Is he in a condition to hear me?” said the governor. 

“Him?” said the physician. “Eh, monsieur, the trum- 
pets of Jericho might sound without making him move! 
Nevertheless we have a means of returning to patients the 
use of their senses.” 

“What is it?” 

“Hot irons.” 

“They are ready,” said one of the torturers, pointing 
out with his finger the chafing-dish. 

The governor stopped him with a gesture ; horror and 
pity were depicted upon his face. 

“We have had enough of that. I will inform Monsieur 
de Louvois of the result of this sitting, and we shall see 
about it after,” said he. 

Upon his order Belle- Rose was carried back to his room ; 
the physician followed him. When the sad cortege had 
passed the door, the governor shook his head. 

“I had predicted it, ” he murmured. “He is one of those 
men who die and do not speak.” 


CHAPTER XXIX. 

WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. 

Informed by the governor of what had taken place dur- 
ing the night at the Bastile, Monsieur de Louvois shrugged 
his shoulders. 

“It is unfortunate,” said he, “that Belle- Rose belongs to 
Monsieur de Luxembourg. Were it not for this fact, we 
might have made something out of him.” 

“What! monseigneur, you know?” 

“I know everything; while you were submitting him to 


What woman wishes, god wishes. 2o3 

the question, a courier has arrived from Flanders ; I have 
learned that the same night of Belle-Kose’s departure the 
young officer had had a conference with Monsieur de 
Luxembourg ; the details of a scene which took place in 
the camp at Charleroi apropos of a captain who had in- 
curred the death penalty, have been related to rne; I have 
learned everything; the soldier has been the general’s in- 
:strument. ” 

“May I ask your excellency what you count on doing?” 

“Me? nothing.” 

“The question, then, becomes useless?” 

“Altogether so.” 

“And the prisoner can be liberated?” 

“No. I forgot him — that is all.” 

The governor understood the terrible significance of 
these words, which condemned Belle-Rose to perpetual 
imprisonment. 

“It must be known,” said the minister, rising, “that 
through me everything can be done, that without me 
nothing can be done.” 

“Permit me to hope, monseigneur, that you will authorize 
me to one day resume this conversation.” 

“So be it; I adjourn you to twenty years.” 

While these things were transpiring at Paris, Madame 
d’Albergotti was lavishing on her husband the most tender 
caresses ; her face had become as white as a taper ; her hands 
seemed as transparent as alabaster. When evening came 
Claudine accompanied her to her room, which adjoined 
that of the marquis. 

“My God! you are killing yourself,” the poor girl said 
to her, as she embraced her. 

“Leave,” answered Suzanne, sadly, “it is for me the 
coming of repose.” 

One night, the third since the visit of Madame de 
Chateaufort, Monsieur d’Albergotti called Suzanne. Su- 
zanne was already at his bedside. 

“You are suffering?” said she. 

“No, I am finishing with it.” 

Suzanne opened her mouth to speak, but Monsieur d’Al- 
bergotti stopped her with a gesture. 

“I have sent for you,” he continued, “to let you receive 
my farewell. I have always loved vou as a father loves 
his child, you have returned this affection as much as it 
was in you to do so ; you have been honest, pious, and re- 
signed ; God owes you a recompense. Approach, Suzanne, 
so that I may bless you,” 


204 


WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. 


Suzanne knelt down near the bed ; she had well under- 
stood Irom Monsieur d’Albergotti’s air that something 
strange and mysterious was passing in him. Monsieur 
d’Albergotti placed both of his hands upon his young 
wife’s forehead and prayed. Presently his hands grew 
heavy and cold. Suzanne parted them and looked at her 
husband. The old captain had just surrendered his soul to 
God. Madame d’Albergotti kissed him on the forehead, 
and went to kneel under the image of Christ, where slie 
passed the night in prayer. After she had paid the last 
tributes to her husband’s remains she commanded a car- 
riage and horses. Claudine had never seen he^ so prompt 
and resolute. 

“Is it to Paris that we are going?” she said to her. 

“No! The king is in Flanders, it is to Flanders that I 
am going. I am free now, and Belle-Rose is suffering.” 

While Suzanne was flying over the route to Lille, the 
captive, overwhelmed by the intolerable sufferings which 
he had experienced, remained stretched out in his bed. 
His mind was covered by a vail. The fourth day he rose 
up. The turnkey, who had already slipped a paper in his 
hand, came to him and let fall at his feet another rolled 
paper. Belle-Rose picked it up and found upon it these 
words : 

“If you are sick, remain sick; if you are not, pretend to 
be so.” 

This time it was Suzanne’s writing. Belle-Rose con- 
cealed the paper over his heart, went to bed again and 
waited. Meanwhile Cornelius and Deroute had arrived at 
Paris, urged on by an uneasiness which they did not seek 
to subdue. Monsieur de Naucrais had anticij)ated the de- 
sires of the sergeant by giving him an unlimited leave. 

“Here is a signature which prevents my deserting, ” said 
Deroute, pressing the paper. “When I was commanding 
the drill and thinking of my lieutenant, my halberd w^as 
like a red-hot iron in my hands.” 

“Go,” said Monsieur de Naucrais, “and attempt every- 
thing to save him. If we were not before the enemy, you 
should not leave alone.” 

As to Madame de Chauteaufort, she went from the Bas- 
tille to Monsieur de Louvois, mournful and despairing. 
This time the proud and valiant Spanish woman felt her- 
self conquered. One day as she was alone in her oratory, 
she saw Madame d’Albergotti enter. Forgetting at the 
same time both her abandoned love and her devouring 
jealousy, she ran to her rival and seized her hands. 


WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. 


205 


“Saved?” said she. 

Suzanne shook her head. Genevieve let fall her arms. 

“What! madame, the king himself ” 

“The king is the king,” said Suzanne, with a poignant 
expression, “he is egotism crowned. He has made a buck- 
ler of reasons of state. I have wept on my knees, and 
here I am.” 

“Lost! my God! lost!” exclaimed Genevieve. 

“Not yet; so long as I live I hope.” 

Genevieve, astonished at this firm and resolute language, 
looked at Suzanne. 

“Oh!” continued the young widow, “I am no longer the 
woman you saw at Compiegne. I can love him without 
fear now, and risk everything to save him. I will stake 
my fortune and my life to do so.” 

“You do not know Monsieur de Louvois!” said Madame 
de Chateaufort, gnawed by despair. 

“I know what an honest and determined heart can do. 
He hates him, I love him ; we shall see.” 

Genevieve stifled a sigh. 

“Try, madame; I will do all that I can to aid you.” 

Suzanne having asked her what had transpired since the 
day of imprisonment, Genevieve related to her all that she 
knew and all that she had attempted. At the recital of the 
tortures inflicted on Belle-Rose, Suzanne shivered. 

“Louis XIV. is King of France, and this is what he per- 
mits?” she exclaimed, with horror. 

They were still together when a lackey came to warn 
the duchess that a man was at the door, insisting on being 
introduced into her presence. 

“Who is this man?” said she. 

“He says his name is Deroute,” replied the lackey. 

“Let him enter at once,” said Suzanne. 

“What do you know and what do you want?” said 
Madame de Chateaufort, when Deroute had been intro- 
duced. 

“1 know that my lieutenant is in prison, and I wish him 
free,” replied the honest sergeant. 

“Well,” said Suzanne, “it is necessary to aid £im to es- 
cape.” 

“From the Bastile? Eh! madame, it would he as easy 
to draw one of the damned from the claws of the devil ! 
There are sentinels at every door, doors in all the passages, 
and turnkeys everywhere. The walls are one hundred 
and twenty feet high, the ditches twenty feet deep, and I 


206 WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOB WISHES. 

do not know a hole where there are not bars as large as 
the arm. ” 

“Nevertheless there is no dungeon, no fortress, no cita- 
del from which one cannot leave. Nothing is impossible to 
the will. ” 

“Nothing, when it is aided by time. You do not know, 
then, whafc it is to escape from a prison of state? It is 
necessary to meditate it in the shadow, to deceive a thou- 
sand looks, to watch for the propitious hour, to leave 
nothing to accident. It is the work of patience. It calls 
for years, and when one succeeds, it sometimes happens 
that the prisoner has white hair. Do you wish to waity 
madame?” 

“Oh, that would be to die!” exclaimed Suzanne. 

“My God! what must we do?” said Genevieve. 

“Draw him from the Bastile with an order from the 
minister,” added the sergeant. 

“He will never grant it!” said both women at the samd 
time. 

“Oh, I understand myself. There are other prisons in 
France, small Bastiles scattered here and there in the 
provinces. Only obtain his transfer to one of them, and I 
charge myself with the rest.” 

“What do you mean?” asked Suzanne. 

“I have my plan. During the twenty-four hours I have 
been at Paris I have gone in all directions. When a man 
has been a soldier for ten or twelve years, he has comrades 
everywhere. Corporal Grippard, who has come into a 
small heritage, is here with four or five old sappers who 
are ready for anything. The Irishman is like a madman.” 

“But,” said Genevieve, “it will be a battle.” 

“Bless me!” said the sergeant, “if the balls fiy, we shall 
endeavor to avoid them.” 

“Well, I will get that order!” exclaimed Suzanne. “Go 
and prepare everything.” 

“All right, but I still need something.” 

“What?” 

“Gold.” 

“I have my diamonds!” exclaimed the duchess. 

“Good! yellow pieces can be .made of those little white 
stones.” 

Madame d’Albergotti was making for the door, when 
Deroute stopped her. 

“Do you know a means of getting a warning to our lieu- 
tenant?” he asked her. 

“I have it,” said Genevieve. “A turnkey who has been 


WHAT AVOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. 


207 


in my father’s service has already consented to place a 
note in Belle-Hose’s possession, providing he is paid for it.” 

“Eecommend him, madame, to go to bed. This note will 
give him a little courage, and his feigned malady will 
facilitate the obtaining of the order for changing his 
prison.” 

Suzanne already held a pen in her hand ; she promptly 
wrote some words. We have seen how Belle-Rose received 
them. The same day Suzanne presented herself at Mon- 
sieur de Louvois’. Monsieur d’Albergotti’s widow was im- 
mediatel3^ introduced ; but at the name of Belle-Rose the 
minister frowned. 

“It is a strange persistence,” said he; “it seems to me 
that I have already refused to set him at liberty.” 

“Therefore it is not that which I come to solicit from 
your clemency. ” 

“What is it, then?” 

“The order of placing Belle-Rose in a prison in which he 
can receive the consolation and aid which his state of 
health call for. ’ ’ 

“Ah! he is sick, then?” 

“Did not the order to apply the question to him come 
from you, monseigneur?” replied Suzanne. 

“But what powerful interest induces you to work in 
favor of this prisoner?” interrupted Monsieur de Louvois. 

“lam his fiancee,'' replied Suzanne, who blushed, but 
did not lower her eyes. 

Monsieur de Louvois bowed. 

“Let your will be done!” said he, writing some words 
upon a printed order, whose blanks alone required filling 
up. 

Monsieur de Louvois rang a bell ; an usher presented 
himself, he handed the order to him and arose. 

“Belle-Rose will be transported to the citadel of Cha- 
lons,” said he; “you will be permitted to see him. After 
the crime of which he has rendered himself guilty, it is all 
that I can do for him, and I would not have done it had 
you not been his betrothed. ” 

Deroute had lost no time. The men whom he had asso- 
ciated with him were only waiting for a signal to act, and 
following the advice which he had received from Madame 
d’Albergotti, he held himself in readiness. The next day, 
at nightfall, the lieutenant of the Bastile entered Belle- 
Rose’s room and told him that an order of tho minister 
sent him to the citadel of Chalons. 

“A post-chaise will take you,” he said to him. 


208 


WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. 


Belle-Rose got up and dressed. An officer was waiting 
for him outside the somber fortress ; near him were two 
soldiers of the mounted police. The postilion was in the 
saddle. The officer was the same one who had arrested 
him in the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice, at Monsieur 
Meriset’s. One of the guards was Bouletord. The ex- 
cannoneer saluted Belle-Rose with a smile. 

“We have played quits or double, and I have won,” he 
said to him. 

Belle-Rose was passing without replying, when, raising 
his eyes, he saw on horseback, in the costume of a pos- 
tilion, the honest Deroute, who was cracking his whip and 
had just raised a bandage which he had applied to his face 
so as not to be recognized. A cry of surprise came near 
bursting from the lips of the prisoner, but the sergeant 
placed a finger upon his lips, and Belle-Rose leaped upon 
the step of the carriage. 

“Ehl” said he to Bouletord, “it is another game which 
begins.” 

The officer sat down beside Belle-Rose. The two guards 
placed themselves upon the front seat, and Deroute bran- 
dished his whip. 

“Eh! comrades,” he exclaimed, “pass your arms through 
the straps, the road is bad, there will be some jolting.” 

“What the devil is he talking about?” murmured the 
officer; “the road is smooth as a floor, and it has not 
rained for a month.” 

Belle-Rose said nothing and passed his arm through a 
strap, which he clasped tightly. Evidently the advice was 
for him. The duchess’ gold had done wonders. Deroute 
had made drunk ten postilions before discovering the one 
who was to drive the prisoner’s chaise. As to this one, he 
had not been able to resist the offer of a purse in which 
the louis shone between the silken meshes. His philosophy 
had deemed that a blue vest laced with silver, a pair of 
buckskin pants, great boots, and the honor of driving a 
prisoner of state were not worth two thousand livres. 
The carriage set out in the direction of the Barriere 
d’Enfer; at some Teagues from there, slightly beyond 
Villejuif, an obstacle forced the carriage to stop. A tree 
had fallen upon one side of the road ; on the other side was 
an immovable wagon. 

“Eh, man with the wagon!” cried Deroute, “make way 
for the servants of the king. ’ ’ 

The man with the chariot poked his head out of the hay, 
gaped, stretched out his arms, and went to sleep again. 


WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. 


209 


Deroute let fly his whip at him, but the lash struck the 
hay three feet from the sleeper. 

“Eh, monsieur officer!” said Deroute, “here is a terrible 
sleeper who bars the way. Ask one of your brave men to 
pull his ears for him. ” 

The officer opened the portiere, and Bouletord jumped 
into the road. He began by pulling the wagon, which 
rolled slowly forward ; but the sleeper, awakened by the 
shock, descended from his hay and ran to Bouletord, who 
immediately grabbed him by the collar. Unfortunately 
the man with the wagon was not of a disposition to sur- 
render without resistance; he answered by such a vigor- 
ous blow of the fist that Bouletord rolled over on the 
ground. Immediately Deroute urged on his horses with so 
much skill that the wheel struck a tree, and the carriage 
overturned on the side where the officer was sitting, of 
whom Belle-Rose made a stepping-stone for leaving the 
vehicle. Four or five men, who seemed to spring up from 
the earth, rushed to the road and ran to the carriage as if 
to aid Deroute to arise. In the midst of the commotion 
into which this fall had thrown the officer, neither he nor 
his comrade thought of . the possibility of an ambuscade. 
The new-comers had the appearance of honest men who 
only asked to aid them ; but the officer and the guard, 
drawn from the chaise by their assistance, were imme- 
diately gagged and bound. As to Belle-Rose, he aided 
Cornelius — who was no other than the man with the 
chariot — to overcome Bouletord. 

“Let us be wise,” said Belle -Rose to the ex-cannoneer, 
who, bruised by the blows which he had received, was 
foaming with rage in a rut; “it is another game which I 
win.” 

When the officer and the two guards were unable to de- 
fend themselves, Deroute and his comrades set to work to 
right the carriage. 

“This is what they call carrying a town without firing a 
gun,” said the sergeant. 

Cornelius cut the traces of the horses who were relieved 
of their harness ; he leaped upon one of them and led the 
two others to Belle-Rose and the sergeant. 

“One minute,” said Deroute,” these gentlemen may 
catch a cold if we leave them in the road. The night is 
somewhat cool. ” 

Aided by his comrades, he carried the officei' and the 
guards to the carriage, locked the doors, an<J withdrew 
after having saluted them politely. 


210 


WHAT WOMAN WISHES, GOD WISHES. 


“Quick now, and you, make haste!” said he to Grippard 
companions, who betook themselves to the fields. 

Deroute rode rapidly along a little path, in which he 
was followed by Belle-Rose and Cornelius. At the end of 
a quarter of an hour the cavaliers perceived the sharp- 
pointed arrow of a chapel which was outlined in black 
upon a clear sky. 

“A dig of the spur, and we are there,” said the sergeant. 

At the door of this chapel two women were waiting, im- 
movable and full of anxiety. 

“This is the hour, and I hear nothing yet,” said one of 
them. 

“My God!” said the other, “save him, and let me die.” 

Each of them heard the pulsations of her heart ; their 
eyes did not quit the path except to turn toward heaven. 

In the chapel a priest was praying near an altar. Sud- 
denly the echoing gallop of several horses was heard. The 
two women sought to pierce the darkness with their eyes ; 
soon they perceived three cavaliers, and recognized the 
one who galloped at the head. 

“Saved!” they exclaimed, and by a spontaneous move- 
ment theyv threw themselves into each other’s arms. 

Presently the three cavaliers arrived ; Genevieve 
snatched herself from Suzanne’s arms. 

“Farewell!” said she; “be blessed, madame, you who 
have saved him.” 

Suzanne wished to detain Genevieve ; so much resigna- 
tion mixed with such a profound grief touched her. 

“Let me go, madame,” said Genevieve, in a dying voice; 
“he loves you, be happy.” 

She entered the chapel and made some steps ; but, over, 
come by suffering, she fell upon her knees behind a pillow. 
Belle-Rose leaped from his horse and found himself in the 
arms of Suzanne. 

“Free! both of us free!” she whispered to him. 

Belle-Rose pressed her to his heart and glued his lips to 
her chaste forehead. But already Deroute and Cornelius 
had gone behind the chapel to get some English horses of 
which the Irishman knew the speed. 

“To horse,” said the sergeant, “each word robs us of a 
league.” 

“Yes, Jacques, fly,” added Suzanne. * 

“Me, fly!” said Belle-Rose; “I am going to the camp.” 

“Ah !” said Deroute, “it would be shorter then to return 
to the Bastile. ” 

“But I shall be heard, I shall be judgedl” 


A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN, 


211 


“And be shot,” interrupted Deroute; “however, if it is 
your idea, leave, I follow.” 

Cornelius intervened; but Belle-Rose would not have 
yielded if Suzanne had not implored him to fly for the 
love of her. Then she entered her carriage, and took the 
road to Paris 

Meanwhile Genevieve had remained kneeling in the 
shadow of the pillar ; she -was praying with hands 
clasped. At this moment the gallop of several horses was 
heard as they moved rapidly away. Genevieve concealed 
her head between her hands. 

“Lost! my God! lost!” said she, and made her way to 
her carriage. 

“Where must I take you, madame?” asked the coach- 

maUi 

“To the Carmelites!” answered Genevieve. 


CHAPTER XXX. 

A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN. 

At the moment when, thanks to the intervention of De- 
route and Cornelius, Belle-Rose w’as quitting Villejuif, 
eleven o’clock struck at the neighboring convent. They 
fled like bullets, glued to the saddles of their horses. 
Deroute slapped his fingers against the palms of his hands 
imitating the noise of castanets. It was a habit he had 
contracted on seeing some Spaniards dance in Flanders, 
and which was a demonstration of his joy. The honest 
fellow, who rarely smiled, had a face expanded like a 
tulip ; but all his gayety fell on learning that they were 
going to England. 

“To England!” said he. “Why the devil are we going to 
England?” 

“But,” said Cornelius, “I have friends over there.” 

“Are your friends English?” 

“And what the devil do you wish thera to be?” 

“I should prefer them to be something’ else.” 

“Hello, comrade!” exclaimed Belle-Rose, “you forget 
the nationality of Cornelius.” 

“No’ Monsieur O’Brien is from Ireland, and Ireland is 
a French country which the good God, through mistake, 
let fall into the sea. That is a point in geography which I 
will sustain against all the world. Let us go to Spain,” 


212 


A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN. 


“It is too far.” 

“Let us go to Lorraine.,” 

“It is too close. ” 

“Then let us go to Flanders.” 

“It is a sure means of falling again into the claws of 
Monsieur de Louvois. ” 

Deroute did not consider himself beaten and was going 
to propose Holland when Belle-Rose stopped him. 

“Ah!” he said to him, “what evil has England done 
you?” 

“None.” 

“Then what objections have you to going to England?” 

Deroute was short of reasons; but when Belle- Rose was 
no longer looking at him he scratched his ear and mur- 
mured, in a low tone: 

“All the same, I do not like England.” 

Cornelius had tied to the croup of their horses some uni- 
forms, which the three cavaliers put on at the first wood 
they came to upon their route. 

“We shall be taken for gentlemen going on a mission,” 
said he, buttoning up his coat. 

“It will not be believed,” said Deroute, “that those who 
escape travel under the dress of those who pursue.” 

And urging on his horse, he threw himself in front like 
an outrider. They traveled thus during three or four re- 
lays. The gold which Madame de Chateaufort had ob- 
tained for her diamonds brushed aside every difficulty. 
At Noailles Belle-Rose’s horse made a start to one side and 
fell. Deroute leaped down, but Belle-Rose had already 
risen. 

“Eh, captain, you are not hurt?” exclaimed the ser- 
geant. 

“No, but the horse seems to be limping.” 

Deroute examined the animal’s legs. 

“He has left two inches of flesh upon the the king’s 
highway,” said he, “you will have to make a league or 
two on foot.” 

“Eh, but,” said Belle-Rose, addressing himself to De- 
route, “how pale you are yourself.” 

The sergeant stamped the ground violently. 

“Hold,” he murmured, “you may ridicule me as much 
as you please, but your fall has stopped my blood from 
circulating. Some misfortune is going to happen to us.” 

“What is it that you expect?” said Cornelius. 

“Faith, monsieur, when England is in front of one and 


A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN. 213 

the king’s men behind one, one has indeed the right to 
tremble a little. It is a presentiment which I have. ’ ’ 

Belle-Rose, who was readjusting his saddle, shrugged 
his shoulders. 

A little more than half the distance had been crossed, 
when, on reaching Nouvion, Cornelius' horse stumbled 
against a stone and fell down. At this place the road was 
rough; the Irishman bruised his hands and knees- he 
wished to rise and could not make a step; he had a 
sprained ankle. Deroute pulled out a handful of hair. 

“You were right, my poor friend,” Cornelius said to 
him, “the misfortune has come to pass.” 

“Please God that it is the only one!” said the sergeant, 
looking in the direction of Paris. 

Nevertheless, as Deroute was a man who had a practical 
philosophy over which presentiments had no influence, he 
did his best to assist Cornelius to remount his horse, and 
they pushed on as far as Bernay. The innkeeper of the 
place possessed an old carriage. The carriage was not so 
bad as it looked, but their progress was less rapid. At 
Cormont, as they arrived at the summit of a hill. Deroute, 
who was always looking behind him, saw in the distance 
a whirlwind of dust ; a flash of light came at times from 
this whirlwind. A gust of wind suddenly swept the road. 
Deroute rose in his stirrups, and shading his eyes with his 
hand, lie threw a rapid glance over the group of cavaliers 
who had just been unmasked. In a second Deroute was at 
the carriage door. 

“Bouletord is coming,” said he, in his tranquil voice. 

Belle-Rose grabbed his pistols. 

“Drop those playthings,” said Deroute; “they would 
only serve to get us killed the more quickly. If we were 
on horseback, we might try them ; but in a carriage, it 
should be a different method.” 

“Better to be killed than retaken!” exclaimed Belle- 
Rose. 

“Better still to be saved.” 

“What do you wish to do?” 

“You are going to see.” 

Deroute ran to the horses drawing the carriage and led 
them into an untraveled road, taking care to turn their 
lieads in the direction of Bouletord. A cut of the whip 
made them leap upon a declivity, against which the car- 
riage overturned. 

“Good!” said he, “we are now going to throw oursehe^ 
behind this wall, the captain and myself. As to you, tha 


214 


A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN. 


gentieraari from Ireland, whom Bouletord does not know,” 
he added, turning to Cornelius, “you will run to the police 
and ask them to come to your aid. It is sufficient to ask 
them to be sure that they will do nothing. Quick, they 
are coming!” 

All this had taken less time in the doing than it has 
taken in the narrating. Belle-Rose and Deroute squatted 
behind the wall, and Cornelius, who had grasped the 
sergeant’s idea, ran toward Bouletord. The police came 
up at a gallop, Bouletord at the head. His face was red 
and his eye inflamed. 

“Hey! monsieur,” exclaimed Cornelius, as soon as he 
was in hearing distance, “an awkward postilion has just 
overthrown my carriage. Can you not aid me to raise it?” 

Bouletord looked in the direction of the carriage. The 
horses had their heads turned in his direction ; he had no 
suspicion. 

“ We shall see on returning, my gentleman, ” said he ; 
and he passed like a thunderbolt with his men. 

Belle-Rose and Deroute leaped from their hiding-place. 
Deroute laughed with all his heart. 

“Decidedly,” said he, “this poor Bouletord is not made 
for the trade he exercises; he is a lamb.” 

“Let us push on,” said Cornelius. 

“No. If Bouletord is a lamb as regards intelligence, this 
lamb has ears. At the next relay, they will tell him that 
they have seen neither carriage nor cavalier, he will turn 
back, and he will surprise us in the very middle of the 
road; it would be a bad ending for a good beginning.” 

“Deroute is right,” said Belle-Rose; “let us permit 
Bouletord to keep on and let us take to the left.” 

Now, after the escape of Belle-Rose in the environs of 
Villejuif, this is what had happened: The reader knows 
that the police officer and his two acolytes had remained 
in the carriage, the doors of which had been carefully 
locked. Two or three hours after, some market-gardeners 
passing along the road heard groans coming from this 
abandoned carriage; they broke in the panels and de- 
livered the prisoners. Bouletord, mad with anger, imme- 
diately asked the officer if he was not going to set out in 
pursuit of the fugitives. The officer, stupefled by the ad- 
venture, could hardly make answer ; it was necessary to 
see, to wait, to inform one’s self. Bouletord manifested a 
keen impatience. 

“Well!” said he to the officer, “give me your commis- 
sion and I will go alone.” 


A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN. 


215 


The officer drew his commission from his pocket; Boiile- 
tord snatched it from him and took his departure. 
Bouletord knew Monsieur de Louvois by reputation ; with 
such a minister success was a sure passport to approval. 
At the moment of the flight, Bouletord had remarked the 
direction which Belle-Rose and his friends had followed. 
The road they had taken led to Ivry. A good woman who 
was gathering grass for her cow had seen three cavaliers 
flying in the direction of St. Mande. At St. Mande a child 
who was robbing an orchard had heard the noise of their 
flight over the route to Charonne ; at Bagnolet they had 
stopped at a blacksmith’s who had drawn a nail from a 
horse’s shoe. Thus, from village to village, Bouletord had 
arrived upon the route to St. Denis. 

“They are going to England!” he said to himself. 

The comdnission, signed by the minister and sealed with 
the seal of state, made him obeyed by the police ; he took 
men in each city and left them at the next The accident 
which had happened to Belle-Rose and also to Cornelius 
caused him to recover the ground which they had gained 
at first. At Cormont, Bouletord reached the fugitives; we 
have seen how he passed on by them. Belle-Rose was 
scarcely three or four leagues from the sea; the only thing 
now was to reach some fishing hamlet where they could 
find a bark in which to cross the channel. The carriage 
advanced rapidly. As they reached the summit of a hill, 
Cornelius, who was looking before him, exclaimed: “The 
sea! the sea!” But at the same moment Deroute, who was 
looking behind, exclaimed: “Bouletord! Bouletord!” The 
sea beat against the shore at one or two leagues from the 
hill; Bouletord was coming up at full speed. Deroute 
leaped upon the horses and stopped them. 

“Quick! get out!” he exclaimed. 

In three strokes of the knife he had cut the traces. 
Belle-Rose and Cornelius were already in the road; the 
bridles and bits were all that was left upon the horses, and 
the two officers, mounting bareback, followed Deroute 
who was flying at full speed. The sun was about to set; 
the sea was rolling its golden waves, and on the horizon 
were seen white sails like wings of birds; in the distance 
roared the great billows which beat again’st the coast. 
Turn by turn the fugitives looked at the sea, where their 
safety lay, and at Bouletord in hot pursuit of them. 
Bouletord had seen the carriage; the action of the travel- 
ers had caused them to be recognized ; just as Belle-Rose 
and Cornelius were leaving at a gallop, a cry of rage burst 


216 


A SCENE UPON THE OCEAN. 


from the brigadier’s lips ; he plunged his bloody spurs into 
his horse’s sides and passed beyond his whole troop at 
a bound. It was a wild and furious race. The foam flew 
from the red nostrils of the horses; their flanks were 
stained with drojDS of blood; Belle-Rose and Cornelius 
])ricked them with the points of their swords ; Bouletord 
flew like a stone hurled from a sling. But Belle-Rose and 
Cornelius were some distance ahead, and Deroute, who 
l^receded them by a hundred steps, was shortening the 
space which separated him from the sea. The pursuit had 
lasted for a quarter of an hour, and the horses were grad- 
ually weakening, when on turning a hillock, at the foot of 
which a road passed, they saw the sea laving with its 
waves the gray sand. Deroute applied the whip to his 
horse and arrived like a thunderbolt upon the shore. A 
floating bark, raised by the mounting tide, was balanced 
upon the crest of the waves. 

“Whose bark?” said he, on setting foot upon the shore. 

“Mine!” said an old fisherman wearing a brown cloak. 

“Open your sail to the wind; here are two gentlemen 
who are being pursued. Do you wish to save them?” 

The old sailor and his son leaped into the bark and cut it 
loose. Belle-Rose and Cornelius, carried on by the impulse 
of their speed, plunged into the water which splashed 
around their horses. In a bound they threw themselves 
into the bark ; the sail swelled under the evening wind, 
the prow turned toward the open sea, and the boat floated 
lightly over the waves. At this moment Bouletord reached 
the shore and looked around him ; no bark was there. His 
men surrounded him; Bouletord saw a musket in the 
hands of one of them, snatched it from him, and directed 
it at the fugitive boat. The black silhouette of the three 
passengers was outlined upon the horizon, where the sun 
had just disappe^bred like a king in a bed of purple and of 
gold. The gun remained immovable for a moment as if it 
had been sustained by a marble hand, then there was a 
flash of light and the lead whistled. A cry came from the 
bark, and one of the three shadows fell with outspread 
arms. A smile of feverish joy illuminated Bouletord’s 
face. 

“This time I have not lost everything,” said he. 

Belle-Rose was extended at the bottom of the boat ; the 
ball had entered slightly above his right breast. Cornelius, 
paler than the wounded man, had thrown himself on his 
knees beside him and was seeking to stanch the flow of 
blood. Dcroute said nothing; his countenance was mourn- 


THE DARK SIDE OP THE PICTURE. 


217 


fill. He looked at Belle-Rose with a frightened air; then 
all at once, leaning over him, he touched the wound with 
his convulsive fingers. 

When his hand was reddened he arose, and shaking the 
dripping blood in the direction of Bouletord, he exclaimed, 
in a terrible voice : • 

“Blood shall pay for blood!” 


CHAPTER XXXI. 

THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 

After having seen Belle-Rose take, in company with 
Deroute and Cornelius, the road to England, Suzanne had 
directed her course toward Paris. She felt certain of bring- 
ing Monsieur de Louvois to better sentiments in respect to 
Belle-Rose, felt certain of obtaining, not his pardon — since 
he was not guilty — but his justification, and all along the 
route she created a thousand gilded chimeras which re- 
called to her the girlish hopes which had so often intoxi- 
cated her in the park of Malzonvilliers. When she entered 
her hotel in the Rue de POseille, Claudine, who was im- 
patiently waiting for her, seeing her so radiant, threw 
herself into her arms. The two friends embraced each 
other, and during the night they had interminable conver- 
sations filled with innumerable air castles. The morning 
surprised them as they were still occupied in these sweet 
dreams, when all at once the heavy hammer of the door 
fell upon the iron button. The two friends trembled and 
clasped each other close. A lackey came to warn Madame 
d’Albergotti that an officer of Monsieur de Louvois’ house- 
hold was below who asked the privilege of speaking to 
her. Suzanne and Claudine grew pale, above all Claudine, 
for whom the name of minister was the symbol of inexor- 
able power and obstinate vengeance. But Suzanne pressed 
her hand. 

“Monsieur de Louvois knows everything, but Belle-Rose 
is out of reach. Stand up, Claudine, and let us show this 
officer that the fiancee and sister of an officer have no 
fear.” 

Monsieur de Louvois’ envoy was introduced and re- 
quested Madame d’Albergotti to follow him at once to his 
master’s. 

“It is for an affair,” said he, “which suffers no delay. ” 


218 


THE DARK SIDE OE THE PICTURE. 


“I have an idea of what it is,” Suzanne answered him, 
“and I am ready to follow you.” 

A carriage was at the door bearing the arms of Monsieur 
de Louvois. Suzanne took her seat within and the coachman 
drove away. The horses went at a pace to prove that the 
orders of the Secretary of State were precise. They ar- 
rived at the minister’s hotel in five minutes; the officer 
showed Madame d’Albergotti to Monsieur de Louvois’ 
apartment and announced her. Monsieur de Louvois was 
pacing his room with contracted lii3s and sparkling eyes ; 
he stopped from time to time before the chimney to drink 
at pleasure from a great jugful of water, for he had already 
contracted that habit, which twenty years later was to 
cost him his life. At Madame d’Albergotti ’s name he 
turned quickly toward the door and made three steps 
toward the young woman. 

“I have learned everything, madame!” he said to her. 

“It is a care with which I intended to charge myself 
during the day,” replied Suzanne, “I regret that another 
has anticipated me. ’ ’ 

“My informant is the police officer whom your accom- 
plices have bound, maltreated, and imprisoned ; an officer 
of the king, madame.” 

“When one tortures an officer of the king, monseigneur, 
one can well imprison one of the king’s police,” said Su- 
zanne. 

Monsieur de Louvois broke the blade of a penknife 
which he was holding between his fingers. 

“This may lead you farther than you think, madame,” 
said he. 

“Not always farther than the king knows.” 

“The king is in Flanders, and I am at Paris; the king is 
the king, and I am his minister!” exclaimed Monsieur de 
Louvois. 

Suzanne was silent ; she began to understand that her 
action might have results which she had not even sus- 
pected; with a minister like Monsieur de Louvois, no one 
was sheltered from his anger, neither the old man, the 
child, the weak, nor the powerful. But these dangers 
which she now divined, Suzanne would have braved 
if she had known them. She resigned herself, then, and 
waited. Monsieur de Louvois threw his penknife upon the 
floor. 

“lam grieved, madame, ” said he, in a brusque tone, 
“but you will have a severe account to render of all this.” 

“I am your prisoner, monseigneur.” 


THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 


219 


“I know it, and it is an awkward action you have com- 
mitted.” 

Suzanne looked at the minister with an astonished air. 

“Eh, madame, ” -continued Monsieur de Louvois, “the 
best thing you could have done, since you wished to de- 
liver Belle-Rose, was to have left with him.” 

“I am not yet his wife, monseigneur.” 

“I thank you for these scruples, madame; they have 
served me more than I hoped for. You will take. the place 
of Belle-Rose. The punishment must follow the crime.” 

“But of what crime do you speak, monseigneur, and 
what crime have I committed, then?” exclaimed Suzanne, 
indignantly. “I know of but one crime in all this, and 
that one was committed in the Bastile upon the person of 
an innocent officer. Now this officer is my betrothed, I 
love him, and why should I not try to save him? Go, 
monseigneur, it is evident that you have never loved, and 
all your power as a minister, great though it is, does not 
go so far as to prevent a woman from devoting herself!” 

Monsieur de Louvois’ countenance \vas frightful to see ; 
anger swelled in his heart like a tempest, and he employed 
all the energy of his will to repress it. 

“And I will show you,”* he exclaimed, with a terrible 
outburst, “that my power goes so far as to avenge myself 
on those who dare brave me. No one has ever done it with 
impunity, madame. Truly you do not know to whom you 
speak. What! an officer of fortune, who is not even a 
gentleman, has rebelled against my authority, has made 
himself the instrument of a man whom I hate, has 
thwarted me in my designs, and I shall not punish him ! 
And you who came to solicit his unmerited pardon— you 
employ your time in securing his escape, you have tri- 
umphed and you come to say similar things to my face. 
But, in truth, it is folly, madame!” 

Monsieur de Louvois had risen and was pacing the 
room. Suzanne looked at him, silent and resolute. 

“And do you believe,” resumed the minister, that if 
Madame de Chateaufort had not placed an insuperable 
barrier between her and myself, I had not punished her 
like you, duchess though she is? You have surrendered 
yourself; woe to you!” 

“You threaten me, monseigneur, and I am a woman!” 
said Suzanne, tranquilly. 

Monsieur de Louvois bit his lip till the blood came. He 
sat down before his table and struck the papers which 
were lying upon it. 


220 THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 

“No, madame, I do not threaten, I act You have saved 
Belle-Rose; but Belle-Rose is not yet out of the kingdom.” 

“He will be out of it to-morrow.” 

“That is what I expect Bouletord to tell me.” 

At this name Madame d’Albergotti grew slightly pale. 

“Oh!” said the minister, “the police officer whom your 
friends accommodated so well has told me all. They have 
gone, but Bouletord is upon their track. Let a horse fall, 
and they are lost.” 

Suzanne shivered. 

“Eh! madame,” continued the pitiless minister, “pray 
that their horses may fall into some hole if you attach any 
importance to your liberty.” 

“Monseigneur, I am only attached to him,” said she. 

Monsieur de Louvois rang, and an usher entered. 

“Go, madame, and await my orders,” said he; “and 
you,” he added, addressing himself to the usher, “ask 
Monsieur de Charny to pass into my room.” 

Madame d’Albergotti arose, saluted Monsieur de Lou- 
vois, and went out, leaving the minister alone with Mon- 
sieur de Charny, who had just entered. This new-comer 
was a little personage whose monkish face and crafty 
glance inspired a sort of repugnance which one could not 
overcome. Godefroy Charny, or Monsieur de Charnj^ as 
he was commonly called, without any one being able to 
explain the origin of his nobility, was the minister’s ad- 
viser and favorite. His influence over Monsieur de Louvois 
was extreme ; it came to him above all from the rapidity 
of his resolutions and the perseverance of his enmities. 
When Monsieur de Louvois asked him his opinion, Mon- 
sieur de Charny never hesitated and* always advised the 
doing of the most extreme thing. Monsieur de Charny 
was nothing and was everything ; he was hated and he 
was feared; no one associated with him, but every one 
took care not to offend him. Monsieur de Charny dressed 
in a very simple fashion. For the rest, polite and insinu- 
ating — one of those men capable of killing without stain- 
ing their cuffs and with hat in hand. 

“Did you see that woman who went out as you came 
in?” Monsieur de Louvois said to him. 

“I saw her; she is pretty and of distinguished appear- 
ance.” 

‘That woman has braved me, and I wish to punish her. ” 
“It was sufficient to say to me, monseigneur, that she 
had braved you ; the rest became useless. ’ ’ 


THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 


221 


“I will probably charge you with the care of my 
vengeance. ’ ’ 

“I am yours, monseigneur.” 

While Monsieur cle Louvois was talking with Monsieur 
de Charny, the usher to whom Madame d’Albergotti had 
been confided took her to a room in which there was 
already a gentleman. At sight cf a woman who seemed to 
belong to the court, the young man arose from his seat. 
Suzanne looked at him, and it appeared to her that she 
had seen this face somewhere ; but owing to the agitation 
into which she had been thrown by her interview with 
Monsieur de Louvois, she could not recall either in what 
place or under what circumstances. 

“Eh! madame la marquise, I am glad to meet you,” ex- 
claimed the young gentleman all at once. 

Suzanne examined her interlocutor more attentively and 
finally recognized Monsieur de Pomereux, who, at the 
time when she was still unmarried, had passed some days 
at Malzonvilliers. She bowed and extended her hand to 
Monsieur de Pomereux, w’ho kissed it. Monsieur de 
Pomereux was not altogether what he was at the epoch 
when he had been a suitor for Suzanne’s hand. Upon his 
face were to be seen the traces of a dissipated life, but, 
from certain movements of his physiognomy, it w^as easy 
to see that the debauchee could still recollect that he was a 
gentleman. 

“From what I can see, you come from Monsieur de Lou- 
vois’ room,” said he, leading Madame d’Albergotti to a 
seat. 

“You are not deceived.” 

“If I can serve you in any way, use my credit, madame; 
I have the honor to be slightly related to Monsieur de 
Louvois.” 

“Well, monsieur, your relative is making preparations 
to send me to prison. ” 

“You!” exclaimed Monsieur de Pomereux, stupefied. 

“Myself.” 

“It is impossible! I shall fly to the minister ” 

“It is useless. It appears that I have committed a great 
crime.” 

“What is it?” 

“I have procured the escape of one of my friends who 
had the honor to be treated as a prisoner of state. ” 

“Diable!” said Monsieur de Pomereux, “it is an ugly 
affair.” 

“So it seems to me now.” 


222 


THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 


“Monsieur de Louvois is not precisely tender on such 
occasions.” 

“Let us admit that he is not at all so.” 

“I willingly agree with you, and it is precisely that 
which disturbs me. You must keep out of prison, 
madame.” 

“I agree with what you say, but that is not the senti- 
ment of Monsieur de Louvois. ’ ’ 

“So it appears, and unfortunately Monsieur de Louvois 
is very obstinate. But, madame, you are not alone in the 
world, you have ” 

“I am a widow, monsieur,” said Suzanne. 

“A widow!” exclaimed Monsieur de Pomereux. “Faith, 
madame, it is your fault if you are one. But,” he hastened 
to add, on seeing Suzanne making ready to reply, “I have 
no rancor, and I place all the credit I possess at your dis- 
posal.” 

Madame d’Albergotti was going to reply when an usher 
entered to inform Monsieur de Pomereux that Monseiur de 
Louvois was expecting him in his cabinet. Monsieur de 
Louvois was signing some pajpers when Monsieur de Pom- 
ereux entered. Monsieur de Charny had just left. 

“Sit down,” the minister said to him; “I have chosen 
you for an important mission, and you must leave at 
once.” 

“I accept the mission and will leave when you wish.” 

“That is how I like to hear you talk.” 

“But you will permit me to say a few words to^you 
about an affair which concerns a lady in whom I am much 
interested.” 

“Her name, if you please?” 

“The Marquise d’Albergotti.” 

“Do you know what she has done?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“And you have the audacity to interest yourself in her?” 

“Parbleu! I have come near marrjdng her. ” 

Monsieur de Louvois could not; keep from laughing. 

“That is a fine reason!” he exclaimed. 

“Only her consent was necessary for her to become my 
wife.” 

“It would have been so much the worse for you.” 

“Why?” 

“Because if she had been yoiir wife, I hardly know what 
you would have been. ” 

“Hey!” 


THE DARK SIDE OF THE PICTURE. 223 

“Your protegee, my cousin, is very much in love with a 
certain scoundrel named Belle-Rose,” 

“That is romantic!” 

“This Belle-Rose was on his way to the citadel of 
Chalons when she procured his escape in the direction of 
Villejuif. The police officer has been locked up in the car- 
riage, and the prisoners have taken the horses.” 

“That was not so awkwardly done.” 

“You think so! Well, I think that so beautiful a feat 
deserves its recompense. I imprison the mistress until I 
get possession of the lover.” 

“What good will ^mu accomplish by that?” 

“My cousin, I am only a poor minister, but I have every 
reason to believe that when he learns that she is in prison, 
he will return, I shall entrap him, and we will proceed to 
hang him.” 

“And I tell you he will not return. What kind of an 
idea do you possess of the captains and marquises of this 
time? The captain no longer thinks of her now, and the 
marquise will no longer think of him to-morrow.” 

“That is your belief.” 

“Parbleu!” 

“Then it would not displease you too much to marry 
her.” 

“Me!” said Monsieur de Pomereux, in surprise. 

“Yes, you, and to explain myself more clearly, would 
you have, monsieur, any repugnance to marry the mar- 
quise in whom you are so much interested?” 

“My faith, though marriage is a pitiful thing, in con- 
sideration of Madame d’Albergotti, I will commit this 
folly.” 

“And you have no fear of Belle-Rose?” 

“Not at all!” 

“Well, Madame d’Albergotti’s pardon is at this price; 
let her marry you, and I forget her fault.” 

“Agreed! Madame d’Albergotti has some fortune, and I 
have always had some taste for her.” 

“See to it, -then, that Madame d’Albergotti comes to a 
decision, or she will have to remain in a convent the rest 
of her life.” 

“She shall not go to the convent.”^ 

“Are you quite sure of it?” 

“We are no longer in the time of pastorals, monseig- 
neur. ’ ’ 

“You are going to make a test of the fact.” 

Monsieur de Louvois called an usher and gave him art 


224 


A PK0P0S4L OF MAKRIAGE. 


order to go and bring Madame d’Albergotti. In a feyv 
minutes Suzanne entered. 

“Since we separated, madame, ” Monsieur de Louvois 
said to her, “I have made a reflection. I wish, in con- 
sideration of your extreme youth, to forget the fault of 
which you have rendered yourself guilty.” 

“Ah!” thought Suzanne, “already it is no longer but a 
fault; just now it was a crime.” 

“But,” continued the minister, “I attach one condition 
to this favor. Monsieur de Pomereux, an acquaintance of 
yours I believe, has been charged by me with informing 
you as to what that condition is. I leave you. Monsieur 
ie Comte will bring me your reply ; I desire it to be such 
that I can set you at liberty immediately.” 

Monsieur de Louvois withdrew, and Monsieur de Pom- 
ereux and. Suzanne were left alone. 


CHAPTER XXXII. 

A PROPOSAL OP MARRIAGE. 

After the departure of Monsieur de Louvois, the Comte 
de Pomereux, on seeing the great eyes of Suzanne fixed 
upon him with an expression of astonishment and in- 
quietude, understood that the mission with which he had 
charged himself was more delicate than he had thought at 
first. But Monsieur de Pomereux was not a man to recoil 
before any enterprise; the most extravagant were pre- 
cisely those which pleased him most. So he proceeded to 
impart to her the intentions of Monsieur de Louvois. 

“You have heard the minister, ” he said to her ; “your 
fate is in your own hands, madame.” 

“That is to say, monsieur, that it is still between his, 
since he attaches a condition to it.” 

“To toll the truth, madame, I have obtained from my 
illustrious cousin more than I hoped for, but in a diiferent 
manner from what I should have desired.” 

“Explain yourself, please.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux was silent for some moments. 

“My faith, madame, ” he all at once exclaimed like a 
man who takes his part, “I believe the simplest way is to 
come out with it plainly.” 

“That is also my opinion, monsieur.” 


A PEOPOSAL OP MAEEIAGE. 


225 


“Well! niadanie, it is Monsieur de Louvois’ will that you 
marry me.” 

Madame d’Albergotti grew red as a strawberry and ut- 
tered a slight cry. 

“Yes, madame, that you meirrj me!” repeated the count, 
bowing. 

“But it is a piece of folly!” exclaimed Suzanne. 

“For yon, madame, I am of that opinion ; but permit me 
to believe that it is nothing of the kind on my side.” 

“Is it quite seriously that Monsieur de Louvois has 
spoken to you, monsieur?” 

“The most seriously in the world.” 

“He wishes me to be your wife?” 

“Or me to be your husband, whichever you prefer.” 

“And that is the only condition which he has attached 
to my liberty?” 

“The only one.” 

“Pardon me, monsieur, if I insist,” said Suzanne, “but 
will you inform me if this proposition comes from Mon- 
sieur de Louvois himself. ’ ’ 

“Certainly, madame, it is an audacity which I would 
have never had.” 

“It appears at least that you approve of it.” 

“I humbly acknowledge it. When the door of paradise 
is open to you, one does not close it.” 

“This is the language of the court, and you forget that I 
am almost in prison. ” 

“Let me believe that you -will never be there.” 

“I see, monsieur,” replied Suzanne, gravely, “that your 
cousin, Monsieur de Louvois, has not told you every- 
thing.” 

“On the contrary, madame, he has told me everything,” 
said Monsieur de Pomereux, with a smile. 

Suzanne looked at him with frightened eyes. 

“He has told you that I was affianced to him whose 
flight I have protected?” exclaimed she. 

“Yes, madame.” 

“That! loved him?” 

“Yes.” 

“That he loved me?” 

“Yes.” 

“And you have consented to marry me?” 

“Yes.” 

“Oh! you lie!” exclaimed Suzanne, rising with a face 
purple with indignation. 

“Not at all; it seems to me that I say to you the most 


226 


A PllOPOSAL OP MAiaUAG 1 


natural things in the world, ” replied tlio count, with an 
unalterable sang-froid. 

“Monsieur,” said Madame d’Albergotti, sitting down 
again, “we must come to an understanding. I have told 
you ” 

“Do not trouble yourself to begin, again; I am going to 
repeat to you what you have told me. You have a fiance; 
this fiance, who is the fugitive pursued by Monsieur de 
Louvois’ men, loves you, which is quite simple, and j^ou 
love him. You are going to swear to me that you are de- 
termined to love him always, and that on his part he will 
take care never to forget you. Is that it?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“You see, then, that I have heard everything.” 

“And notwithstanding these avowals, you still persist in 
wishing me for your wife.” 

“Upon my word, madame, it is my chief desire.” 

A bitter smile passed over the lips of Suzanne, who drew 
back her seat and gathered her dress around her with a 
gesture of crushing scorn. 

“Is it possible, madame, that you have seen so little of 
the world that my proposition astonishes you?” continued 
Monsieur de Pomereux. 

“It does more than astonish mo, monsieur; it afflicts 
me.” 

“Eh! my God! madame,” exclaimed the count, with a 
surprised air, “what is there, then, so afflicting in the 
desire which I have to marry you? Y^ou are such that half 
the ladies of the court are jealous of you ; I am a gentle- 
man, we are both young. What is there more simple?” 

“Since all this is more serious than I thought at first, I 
will answer you seriously, monsieur. When my father 
served as guide to my youth, I made the sacrifice of my 
hand, but to-day that I am free, the hand will not give 
itself without the heart. Now the h'eart is already given, 
monsieur. I have nothing more to say in answer to the 
proposition which you have transmitted to me in the name 
of Monsieur de Louvois. My life and liberty are his ; my 
love is my own.” 

From Madame d’Albergotti’s air. Monsieur de Pomereux 
understood that he no longer had anything to hope for ; 
but he drew from this certainty the desire of triumphing 
over a resistance which, to tell the truth, he had not ex- 
pected. 

“In faith, madame,” said he, with a smile, “perhai^s 


A PROPOSAL OF MARRIAGE. 227 

you are wrong, and your refusal exposes you to a danger 
which you did not expect. ’ ’ 

“What is it, monsieur?” 

“That of seeing me fall in love with you.” 

Suzanne shrugged her shoulders. 

“Eh! madame, you need not ridicule the idea. If you 
had married me, you would perhaps have escaped this 
peril, but you are not sure of avoiding it now. ’ 

“If it is a peril, acknowledge at least that Monsieur de 
Louvois will take care to place me where it cannot redich 
me.” 

“And that is what vexes me. Prison for prisonf in your 
place, I should have preferred marriage. It is a Bastile 
from which one sometimes escapes.” 

Suzanne stopped Monsieur de Pomereux with a gesture. 

“So be it,” said he. “You are now between my cousin’s 
claws ; but it shall not be said that I attempted nothing for 
your deliverance; the thing interests me a little now, and 
I shall put everything to work to set you free again.” 

An hour later Monsieur de Louvois called for Monsieur 
de Pomereux. 

“Well,” he said to him, as soon as he perceived him, 
“have we made the citadel capitulate?” 

“Ehiparbleu! one is almost sure of triumphing over a 
woman, and you send me to a phenomenon. ’Pon my 
word, Heloise, of faithful memory, is not worthy, in my 
opinion, to lace Madame d’Albergotti’s corset.” 

“In short she prefers the prison or the cloister to your 
person.” 

“You see how humiliated I am by it. It is a very bad 
example for the court, and you cannot imprison her too 
soon.” 

“I will take care of that,” replied Monsieur de Louvois, 
writing some words upon a paper. 

Monsieur de Louvois’ accent as he said this made Mon- 
sieur de Pomereux tremble, although he was not easily 
moved. He threw a look of pity toward the door of the 
cabinet occupied by Suzanne, and went out. 

Immediately after Monsieur de Louvois had a moinent’s 
conference with Monsieur de Charny. 

“Well, she refuses Monsieur de Pomereux. The convent 
is still left us,” said Monsieur de Louvois, placing his sig- 
nature at the bottom of a letter which he had just written. 

“Bah!” said the confidant, “a cell is preferable to a 
bier.” 

Soon after, an usher came to inform Madame d’ Albergotti 


228 THE CONVENT IN THE HUE DU CHERCHE-MIDI. 


that it was time to leave. The marquise arose and de- 
scended to the court of the hotel, where she saw a carriage 
bearing the arms of the minister. The gentleman who had 
conducted her that morning to Monsieur de Louvois’ was 
waiting for her. It was Monsieur de Charny. At sight 
of that pale and cold visage, Madame d’Albergotti shivered ; 
she turned aside her eyes and leaped, without taking ]iis 
hand, into the carriage, in which Monsieur de Charn}^ 
sat down soon after. The coachman cracked his wliip, 
and the carriage rolled away. 

‘‘Where are you taking me, monsieur?” Suzanne asked 
Monsieurwde Charny. 

“To the Convent of the Benedictine Nuns in the Rue du 
Cherche-Midi. ” 


CHAPTER XXXIII. 

THE CONVENT IN THE RUE DU CHERCHE-MIDI. 

The Convent of the Benedictine Nuns in the Rue du 
Cherche-Midi was then one of the convents of Paris most 
renowned for the austerity of its discipline. It was a great 
square building, surrounded by vast and beautiful gardens, 
which formed for this religious exile a verdant rampart 
filled with cool retreats and shady paths. But in the midst 
of this fresh and smiling park the convent, with its white 
walls and gray roofs from which no noise escaped, had a 
mournful aspect which chilled the heart. It was like a 
great tomb in the midst of flowers. At the name of Mon- 
sieur de Louvois, the door opened; Madame d’Albergotti 
and her guide descended from the carriage; Suzanne was 
taken to a little room, whose sole furniture was a wooden 
bench, an image of Christ, and a prie-Dieu, and Monsieur 
de Charny was introduced into the parlor, where the 
superior was waiting for him. 

“Wait here some moments, madame,” said Monsieur de 
Charny to Suzanne, on quitting her; “I am going to recom- 
mend you to the special kindness of the superior.” 

Madame d’Albergotti bowed without replying. The voice 
of this man congealed the blood in her veins. The letter 
of which Monsieur de Charny was the bearer was con- 
ceived in clear and precise terms. As soon as she had be- 
come acquainted with its contents, the superior respect- 
fully saluted the minister’s envoy. 

“Assure Monsieur de Louvois,” said she, “that his in- 


THE CONVENT IN THE EUE DU CHEEOHE-MIDI. 229 


structions shall be observed ; I know too well what the 
house of which I have the direction owes him to fail there- 
in. ” 

•‘Madame,” replied Monsieur de Charny, “this letter 
must have told you that Monsieur de Louvois had in some 
sort confided to me the guardianship of the person whom 
he sends you. His intention is that she shall take the vail 
in two or three months, unless she submits to his will be- 
fore that time. ” 

“She shall take it, monsieur.” 

“She is obstinate, and unfortunately inclined to worldly 
things. Of course you will treat her kindly, for it is in 
your pious and soft character, madame; but temper this 
extreme kindness by a little firmness. Believe me, she 
will the more readily find the road to safety. ’ ’ 

Monsieur de Charny sj)oke some minutes still in this 
tone, then withdrew, not without profound reverences. 
At the end of a quarter of an hour, Suzanne heard the 
carriage which had brought him rolling away. She gave 
in thought a last adieu to the things of life, and followed 
a sister who came to seek her. 

The superior of the Convent of Benedictine Nuns, who 
was called, between the walls of the convent. Mother 
Evangelique du Cocur-de- Marie, had been known in the 
world as Madame de Biege. She was a creature- of Mon- 
sieur de Louvois. 

“My daughter,” said she to Suzanne, with a pale smile, 
“Monsieur de Louvois, who wishes you well, informs me 
that he has chosen our house for your retreat. On the 
threshold of this pious house die the noises of the world. 
Rejoice, my daughter, that you have come here.” 

“I would rejoice, madame, if I had come here -of my 
own free will ; but I have been brought here by force, and 
I imagine that this house is, for me, a sort of Bastile.” 

Mother Evangelique bit her lip; but she continued, 
more softly : 

“You are not in a prison; this is the house of God, and 
you are under the protection of the holy mother of Christ. 
You are young, my daughter, and subject to the illusions 
of the world. But one learns in our profound peace to re- 
gret nothing, and I hojoe that you will one day ehter the 
holy flock of which God has confided to me the direction. 
Adieu, my daughter.” 

The superior withdrew, and soon after a sister came to 
take Suzanne to the room which was destined for her. 
While these things were transpiring at the convent in the 


230 THE CONVENT IN THE RUE DU CHEROHE-MIDI. 

Rue du Cherche-Midi, Claudine was awaiting, in a mortal 
inquietude, the return of Suzanne. The hours passed away, 
and Suzanne did not return. Toward noon, not having 
seen or heard anything, Claudine, no longer being able to 
contain herself, left the hotel and ran to Monsieur de 
Louvois’. By force of questioning the ushers who went 
and came in all directions, she learned that Madame d’Al- 
bergotti had left in a carriage with a gentleman belonging 
to the retinue of Monsieur de Louvois. This news was not 
of a nature to diminish her fears. What did they wish to 
do with Suzanne? where had they taken her? The court 
was full of all sorts of people going and coming, at every 
minute a carriage left or arrived with great noise, the 
lackeys were playing dice while waiting for their masters; 
no one paid any attention to Claudine. The poor girl, 
overcome by weariness, finished by sitting down upon a 
little bench in a corner, where she began to weep. She 
was about to dry her eyes, something which she had done 
already for the tenth time, when she was drawn from her 
isolation by a voice which called her. Claudine raised her 
head and recognized Corporal Grippard. In her present 
state of agitation the kindly face of Grij^pard appeared to 
her the best and most amiable face she had ever seen. 

“Oh! my God!” said she, “it is heaven which sends 
you.” 

“In faith, mademoiselle, I will go to burn a taper for the 
saint which brings me this good fortune, ” replied Grip- 
pard, with a military grace which on any other occasion 
wxmld have made Claudine smile. 

“Monsieur Grippard,” said the young girl, “you must 
come to my aid; at first I did not know what was to be- 
comeK)fme. ” 

“Eh! my God! you say this to me with a singular air; 
what, then, has happened to you?” 

“You do not know, then? Suzanne has been carried 
off.” 

“Suzanne!” repeated Grippard, with a surprised air. 

“Yes; Madame d’Albergotti.” 

“The lady who, with my friend Deroute, has employed 
herself to procure. my captain’s escape?” 

“Yes.” 

“And who the devil can have taken it into his bead to 
commit this beautiful action?” 

“Monsieur de Louvois. ” 

“Oh!” said Grippard, with a frightened air. 

“You are going to aid me to find her again?” 


THE CONVENT IN THE RUE DU CHERCHE-MIDI. 231 


“1 am perfectly willing, but what can a poor devil of an 
ex-corporal do in opposition to a minister?” 

“All the same, you will aid me.” 

“With great pleasure; Captain Belle-Rose is a brave 
soldier who has not punished me every time that I de- 
served it; this lady whom you call Madame d’Albergotti 
has served him all in her power ; well, ventrebleu ! I will 
serve her with all my strength.” 

“It is first necessary to know where he has been taken, ^ 
said she. 

“We will find out by ferreting in that great barrack of a 
hotel; I will find some comrade or some lackey who is ac- 
quainted with the ushers or clerks. I have good legs and 
my tongue is not too bad, as you will see.” 

“As soon as you learn the place of her retreat, you will 
come and inform me of it?” 

“Parbleu! since it is for you, I will ask it.” 

“And you will not lose a minute?” 

“Not a second.” 

Claudine returned to the hotel in the Rue de I’Oseille, a 
little less troubled than she was when she had met Grip- 
pard. Grippard was a conscientious man, who performed 
Icyally all that which he promised; unfortunately he had 
more loyalty than intelligence, and he rarely succeeded in 
things which required a certain amount of cunning. He 
installed himself before Monsieur de Louvois’ hotel and 
bravely set to work to question the lackeys, the ushers, 
and all the employees who circulated there. He was 
standing there, looking for a new face to question, when 
he perceived Bouletord descending the grand stair-way 
with a radiant air. The brigadier had one hand upon his 
hip, and wuth his other hand he was curling his mustache. 
Never had his hat been placed so awry, never had his 
sword so proudly beaten his legs, never had his hoots been 
planted so squarely upon the pavement ; he was a man 
who wmre an air of triumph fr^m head to foot. Grippard 
had seen Bouletord on the day of the expedition to Ville- 
juif, but Bouletord had not seen Grippard who was dis- 
guised. The corporal did not hesitate, and resolutely ac- 
costed his comrade. 

“Good-day, brigadier,” he said to him. 

“Quartermaster, if you please,” replied Bouletord, with 
a superb air. 

“Ah! diable! you are advancing, it seems.” ' 

“It is Monsieur de Louvois whom I have just seen who 


232 THE CONVENT THE HUE DU CHERCHE-MIDL 

has named me to this position. He will not stop at this. 
The minister knows how to appreciate my services.” 

In pronouncing these words Bouletord seemed to he 
stifling in his uniform ; he spoke in loud tones and turned 
his eves in ail directions to see if any one was looking at 
him. Grippard had enough sense to understand that this 
man only asked to he questioned in order to reply. He 
proposed to him to go and drink a bottle or two together, 
and the quartermaster accepted, in the double hope of re- 
freshing himself and having an auditor. 

“Therefore,” said Grippard, when they vrere seated be- 
fore the table of a neighboring cabaret, “you have seen the 
minister.” 

“As I see you; he has given me twenty louis and has 
told me that I was a brave man whom it was^ necessary to 
push.” 

“You have performed all sorts of courageous deeds, 
then?” 

“Only one, but it was worth a thousand.” 

“What was it?” 

“I have killed Belle-Eose.” 

Grippard let fall the glass which he was holding to his 
mouth. 

“Oh! wdien I say killed, I am not altogether sure of it; 
but he must be dead by this time. I have placed a ball at 
this spot in him,” added Bouletord, jdacing his Anger 
upon Grippard’s doublet. “See what one gains,” continued 
Bouletord, who took his comrade’s silence for admiration, 
“by struggling against us. The man is almost dead and 
the woman imprisoned.” 

“What woman?” asked Grippard, with an innocent 
air. 

“Eh! parbleu! Madame d’Albergotti. She is in a con- 
vent. ” 

“W^hat convent?” 

“Faith, I do not know. It is a convent like all convents. 
Visitandines, Visulines, or Benedictines — what difference 
does it make?” 

“That is true,” said Grippard. 

Bouletord was beginning to get tipsy ; he quitted 
Madame d’Albergotti and returned to Belle-Hose; at the 
end of a quarter of an hour he had narrated six times the 
history of the shot. It was more than Grippard wished to 
hear ; he paid his reckoning and ran to Claudine. 

Claudine came near dying of despair on hearing the 
narrative of the poor soldier. Twenty times she made him 


THE CONVENT IN THE KUE DU CHERCHE-MIDI. 233 


repeat the same discourse and interrupted him at each 
moment by her sobs. 

“Perhaps he is still alive,” she finally said. 

“What do you count on doing?” 

“To leave for England. ” 

“I do not know how to make you the offer,” said Grip- 
pard, “but it seems to me that you would do well to permit 
me to accompany you. I have been a corporal in your 
brother’s company. It is quite simiffe. ” 

“I accept, ” she said to him ; “we will leave to-morrow.” 

Monsieur de Louvois had no sooner learned the news of 
the supposed death of Belle-Rose than he sent for Monsieur 
de Pomereux. He informed him of Belle-Rose’s death and 
gave him a letter to the superior of the convent in the Rue 
du Cherche-Midi. Monsieur de Pomereux went at once 
and was received by Madame d’Albergotti in the parlor. 
The same emotion which had seized the gentleman at their 
first interview at Monsieur de Louvois’ made tremble his 
heart at sight of Suzanne. She had, as she saluted him, a 
smile so sweet and such a chaste mixture of reserved 
affabilit3^ that he was .touched hy it. 

“Do you bring me good news?” she said to him. 

“Alas! madame, ” Monsieur de Pomereux replied, “I 
come on the part of Monsieur de Louvois.” 

“That is to say that the news is not good.” 

“Perhaps you are right. I wish that we were in the time 
of the chevaliers of the Round Table in order to have the 
right to come to deliver you lance in hand; unfortunately, 
madame, the police are in the way ; but there is another 
means of leaving here.” 

“Again!” said Suzanne, in a half laughing, half serious 
tone. 

“Eh! madame, believe that if I mention this proposition, 
it is more in your interest than in mine. You are de- 
livered, and I am enchained. ’ ’ 

The brusque tone of this repartee made Madame d’Alber- 
gotti smile. 

“Must I thank you?” said she. 

“Hold, madame, let us speak seriously,” replied the 
count; “it has been such a long time since this folly has 
happened to me, that I can indulge it for a few moments. 
I feel attracted toward you by a sympathy which you will 
call by what name you please, but which is sincere; your 
future frightens me, you do not know what kind of a man 
my dear cousin is. When passion dominates him he is 
capable of anything. You and Captain Belle-Rose have 


234 


A WHITE NIGHT. 


•wounded his pride as minister ; the wound is incurable. 
You know what day you have entered this convent; do 
you know what day you will leave it? Are you quite sure 
that Belle-Rose will ever return? Between you there is 
the sea and the minister’s anger, madame ! Do you wish 
to make of this cloister your tomb? First leave, marry 
me, and you can live afterward as you chose. If I dis- 
please you too much, our gracious monarch will furnish 
me the occasion to get killed in his service. At any rate 
you will be free and out of these stifling walls.” 

Madame d’Albergotti saw that Monsieur de Pomerqjjx 
spoke seriously this time. She extended her hand to the 
young man, who kissed it respectfully. 

“Thanks, monsieur,” she said to him; “you have a kind 
heart. In repulsing you it is not Monsieur de Pomereux 
whom I repulse ; it is iparriage with another than Belle- 
Rose. I have plighted my faith to him; let him die or 
live, I shall keep it. I do not hide from myself the perils 
to which the rancor of Monsieur de Louvois exposes me. 
These perils will not be stronger than my resignation. 
You have understood me, monsieur; let this be final be- 
tween us. ” 

Monsieur de Pomereux ibowed. What he had still to say 
strangled him; he wished to conquer his emotion and 
could not. He leaned over Suzanne’s hand and kissed it 
again with a respect which was not habitual with him. 

“You are a noble creature,” said he. 

Monsieur de Pomereux called for the superior; she came, 
and he asked her to communicate to Madame d’Albergotti 
the news of which he was the bearer; after which he went 
out in all haste. As he Avas traversing the inner court, he 
heard a heart-rending cry. His heart leaped in his breast. 

‘ My God!” he murmured, “I believe that if thirty 
women had not shared my affections, I would finish by 
loving this one.” 


CHAPTER XXXIV. 

A WHITE NIGHT. 

The cry which Monsieur de Pomereux had heard was 
indeed the cry of Suzanne when she had learned the sup- 
posed death of Belle-Rose. Mother Evangelique had coldly 
announced it to her, and Suzanne, overwhelmed by this 
blow, had fallen upon the carpet. The superior called two 


A WHITE NIGHT. 


235 


sisters, who transported her to her room, where she re- 
mained several hours without giving any sign of life. 
When she awoke as from a long sleep, the tears were 
streaming from her eyes. Toward evening, her distracted 
soul clung to a hope, which in the night of her despair, 
shone like a star.^ It seemed to her that, in her cruel nar- 
ration, the superior had vaguely expressed a doubt con- 
cerning the reality of Belle-Rose’s death. It might also be 
a false piece of news prepared by Monsieur de Louvois. 
•Suzanne resolved to wait before taking any determination, 
but the blow had been terrible, and when she appeared 
next day at prayers, it might have been believed that she 
was a ghost coming from the tomb. Three days passed in 
this anguish which exhausted her. On the fourth day, 
Suzanne was informed that Monsieur de Pomereux was in 
the parlor and desired to speak with her. Suzanne’s first 
thought was to refuse this interview, but she changed her 
mind and w^ent down. Monsieur de Pomereux hardly 
recognized her, so profound was the transformation which 
she had undergone. 

“Madame,” he exclaimed, “you are killing yourself.” 

“Despair is not suicide,” she replied. 

“Mordieu! madame, ” said the count, “it shall not be 
said that I let you die. Belle-Rose is not dead.” 

Suzanne’s joy was so keen that she tottered and came 
near falling; tears burst from her eyes and she began to 
sob like a child without knowing what she was doing. 
When Suzanne had grown somewhat calm, she raised a 
face in which shone a smile bathed in tears. 

“Thanks!” she said to him, “you do not know what a 
relief your words give me.” 

“Eh! par bleu! I suspect it slightly from the pain which 
I suffer.” 

“Are you quite sure he is not dead?” 

“Yes, I am quite sure of it.” 

“From whom does your information come?” 

“It comes from my cousin, who has received it from 
England, where Captain Belle-Rose now is. ’ ’ 

“But perhaps he is dangerously wounded?” 

“To speak to you frankly he has a ball in his breast. 
Ah! you grow pale! Come, the wound is not mortal. 
Diable ! I have seen people cured who were pierced through 
and through. In six weeks he will be as sound as ever. ” 

“Do you believe it?” 

“I give you my word upon it. Monsieur de Louvois has 
been informed of the adventure by Monsieur de Charny, a 


236 


A WHITE NIGHT. 


devil of a man who has agents everywhere; he has re- 
ceived news of it from Dover, where the fugitives have 
disembarked. Monsieur de Louvois has torn up the dis- 
patch; he begins to believe that the captain has some 
amulet which protects him.” 

‘‘It is the justice of his cause which defends him, mon- 
sieur.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux’s visit gave back to Suzanne the 
calm which she had lost, and full of courage, now that 
Belle- Eose was alive, she had faith in the future. There 
was in the convent a young girl whom her family were 
trying to induce to take the vail. She had been Suzanne’s 
friend during those somber days when she was grieving 
over Belle Eose’s supposed death. A tender affection had 
sprung up between them. Gabrielle de Mesle might be 
seventeen or eighteen years of age ; she was slender and 
white like a lily, and blonde like those portraits of the 
Virgin which one sees in churches. One night as Suzanne 
was asleep in her room, she was drawn from her sleep by 
light sighs which came from the foot of the bed. She 
opened her eyes and saw, in the dim light of a night-lamp, 
a white form which was seated at her feet, immovable and 
stiff like a statue. Though she was naturally courageous, 
Suzanne shivered and felt an icy sweat bathe her temples; 
she arose to get a better view of the phantom. As she 
leaned forward, she recognized Gabrielle, who was look- 
ing at her with dilated eyes. The poor girl’s head was 
bare, and her long hair descended to her breast ; she was 
half clothed in a peignoir which floated around her form 
and gave her the appearance of a shadow. Her teeth chat- 
tered behind her white lips. 

“I am afraid,” said she, extending toward Suzanne her 
suppliant hands. 

“I am going to die! I am going to die! My God! save 
me !” cried Gabrielle. 

These words, and still more the accent with which they 
were spoken, filled with pity the heart of Suzanne. She 
let Gabrielle ’s head rest upon her shoulder and called her 
by the softest names. 

“You are a little fool, calm yourself ,” said she ; “are 
you not near me? What do you fear?” 

“Oh!” said Gabrielle, “I feel that I am dying a little 
each day. This night I have seen 'my sister calling me in 
a dream. She, too, is dead. I have awakened bathed in a 
cold sweat ; I felt her humid and icy breath ; I have closed 


A WHITE NIGHT. 


237 


my eyes and ran here more dead than alive. She was in a 
convent, my poor sister; she never left it.” 

Gabrielle pressed her face to Suzanne’s breast and sobbed 
grievously. 

“And you have no relatives?” 

“Helatives! Oh! I have several of them, perhaps too 
many of them. We were rich, so rich that several envied 
us ! It is horrible ! horrible 1” 

Gabrielle trembled from head to foot. 

“It was my mother who died first, beautiful, j’^oung, and 
adored ; she grew pale one day, then suffered the next, 
then went to bed ; she complained some days longer and 
never rose again. My sister loved no one in the world but 
her. This death rendered her mad ; she went to a convent, 
there she suffered as I am suffering, and she only left it to 
go to the cemetery with a crown of white roses upon her 
forehead. ’ ’ 

“Poor girl!” murmured Suzanne. 

“Is it of me or of the dead you speak?” said Gabrielle; 
“our destiny will be the same. A brother was left us, an 
adorable child six years old, frank, joyous, with rosy lips 
and eyes like fiowers. Poor Henri! one morning he awoke 
with the pallor of marble upon his forehead; his lips were 
blue, his skin dry and hot ; he threw his arms around my 
nock, telling me that his breast was on fire.; at noon his 
little hands were already cold, and when evening came he 
was dead!” 

Suzanne pressed Gabrielle to her breast. 

“You are astonished, ” said the jmung girl, in a hollow 
voice, “but you have understood nothing, then? You 
know nothing?” 

“What?” said Suzanne, with affright. 

“We were rich; others wished our wealth. They will 
get it — I alone am left!” 

And in low tones she added : 

“Poison is in Prance, poison is everywhere; it is in the 
heart of families, it is in the water we drink, in the fruit 
we eat, in the flower which we caress, in the perfume we 
breathe. It is the invisible, infallible enemy ; it devours 
France; it is in the heart of the kingdom; it is the master, 
despoiler, and king. It is my fortune they wish — am I not 
the last heir? Let them keep this fortune, I shall take the 
vail. I am afraid to die at seventeen. My God! I should 
like to live. ’ ’ 

Tears sprang from Gabrielle’s eyes; terror, fever, and 


238 


THE BENUNCIATION. 


despair tortured her. Finally, overcome by so ma-ny emo- 
tions, she ended by closing her eyelids and going to sleep 
near Suzanne. 


CHAPTER XXXV. 

THE RENUNCIATION. 

The nocturnal confessions of Gabrielle had drawn her 
and Suzanne more closely together. At the end of three 
weeks it seemed as if they had always known each other. 
Nothing could change Gabrielle’s resolution; she was 
driven at the same time by fear and despair. As soon as 
her intention to take the vail was known in the convent, 
the superior ordered the hastening of all the preparations 
for the ceremony. The family was notified, the friends 
invited, and the day chosen. Gabrielle’s noviciate was not 
terminated, but a dispensation was obtained from the 
Archbishop of Paris, and nothing any longer stood in the 
way of her pronouncing the vows. Gabrielle’s misfortune 
had turned aside Suzanne’s thoughts from their natural 
course. She forgot her own troubles at the sight of so 
much youth allied to so much grief. An unexpected visit 
obliged her to recall them. The evening before the day on 
which Mademoiselle de Mesle was to renounce the world 
for devoting herself to God, Madame d’Albergotti was 
informed by a sister that Monsieur de Charny was waiting 
for her in the parlor. 

“Already a month has passed, madame,” Monsieur de 
Charny said to her, saluting her respectfully, “since Mon- 
sieur de Louvois regretfully sent you to the convent, 
where he would certainly not have * sent you if reasons of 
state had not constrained him to do so.” 

“If the regret was as keen as you say, monsieur, it 
seems to me that the minister could readily rid himself of 
it.” 

“Ah! madame, how little you know the harsh laws 
which power imposes on those who exercise it ! Above the 
minister’s will, there are reasons of state; Monsieur de 
Louvois hoped at least that the atmosphere of this place 
would induce you to take the vail. But, in defect of pro- 
fession for that, he has even pushed kindness so far as to 
make you an offer of entering his family ; you have re- 
fused everything. ’ ’ 


THE llENUNCIATION. 


239 


“Not being the ward of any one, I have the right, I im- 
agine, to think of my own establishment.” 

“Certainly, madame, and Monsieur de Louvois would 
regret to thwart your intentions; hut still the care of the 
kingdom requires you to take a determination.” 

“The care of the kingdom, monsieur — those are big 
words for so insignificant a person as myself!” 

“The enemies of the king utilize everything, madame. 
If you knew to what unjust attacks eminent men are ex- 
^ loosed, you would see all this affair under a different light, 
and would no longer accuse Monsieur de Louvois, who 
wishes you well. But if you continue to refuse His Excel- 
lency’s good offices, he will be forced to take new measures 
which will assure at the sai^e time your repose and that of 
the state. ’ ’ 

“Tell monseigneur le ministre that I am ready to suffer 
ever.y thing, but that I am not ready to give way to any- 
thing.” 

“Madame,” replied Monseiur de Charny, saluting 
Madame d’Albergotti, who had already risen, “I shall 
have the honor to see you again in a month, and I shall 
])ray God that your resolutions may be changed by that 
time ” 

At dawn the following day the bells of the convent in 
the Rue du Cherche-Midi rang a full peal. The ceremony 
of taking the vail was a religious solemnity quite frequent 
at the time when this story transpires, but which did not 
fail to attract a great crowd on each occasion. A great 
number of the ladies and gentlemen of the court were to 
be seen there, and on this day pomp replaced silence and 
profound meditation in the chapels and cloisters. 

When Mademoiselle de Mesle entered the chapel it was 
filled with a brilliant assemblage of people. A sad and soft 
murmur welcomed her ; she was so beautiful that every 
one pitied her. She wore upon her blonde hair a crown of 
white flowers, pearls were attached to her neck and jewels 
to her arms, belt, and dress. She traversed the church 
with a firm step, accompanied by Mother Evangelique and 
another nun. Monsieur de Mesle and the members of his 
family followed her. When she had mounted the steps 
which separated the nave from the choir, the ceremony be- 
gan. The Archbishop of Paris officiated. Gabrielle knelt 
down upon a velvet cushion and prayed. The chapel was 
full of perfumes and flowers ; the organ gave forth the sweet- 
est airs ; sisters concealed in a tribune mixed their celestial 
voices with the accords of the instrument ; it was a divine 


240 


THE LAST HOUR. 


harmony that charmed the ear and lulled the heart. When 
mass had been celebrated, the work of renunciation bep:an. 
A sister detached the flowers which decorated the forehead 
of the yomig fiancee of heaven, and let them fall upon the 
marble; another untied the pearl necklaces and diamond 
bracelets ; and the jewels, which recalled the vanities of 
this world, strewed the slabs of the choir ; the knots of 
ribbon were untied, and Gabrielle’s luxuriant hair was 
scattered over her naked shoulders. A ray of sunshine, 
gliding through the windows, enveloped her bowed head 
with an aureole and played in the floating tresses of her 
long blonde hair. A sister took them in her left hand, and 
with the right she cut off the curls, which soon covered 
the dress and cushion. The archbishop raised the cross 
toward heaven, and with his extended Angers blessed the 
crowd ; the sisters prayed in chorus, and the organ rolled 
forth its waves of sound. When the last curl of hair w^as 
cut off. Mother Evangelique threw a vail over Gabrielle’s 
head, the songs burst forth, and the grated door of the 
choir fell back upon its hinges. Gabrielle no longer be- 
longed to the world. 


CHAPTER XXXVI. 

THE LAST HOUR. 

The day after Gabrielle had taken the vail, Suzanne en- 
countered Monsieur de Charny upon the terrace of the 
convent; Monsieur de Charny made her a profound salute. 
Suzanne bowed and passed on. The sight of this man in- 
spired her with an invincible horror, and caused her to 
shudder like a child who has stepped on a serpent. On her 
awakening the following morning she found upon one of 
the chairs in her room a complete novice’s outfit; the 
dress, the vail, the chaplet. Her clothing of the evening 
before had disappeared ; some one had entered during her 
sleep and carried it off. Suzanne hesitated a moment be- 
fore dressing herself, but it was not in her character to 
revolt for small things. To the wretched annoyances of 
which she was the object, she opposed unceasingly a calm 
forehead and a pious resignation. 

Since the day on which Mademoiselle de Mesle had taken 
the vail, her health, already bad, grew constantly worse. 
Each morning Suzanne was frightened to notice the change 


THE LAST HOUK. 


241 


in her ; her cheeks became more hollow, the bluish circle 
which framed her eyes assumed leaden tints ; her wasted 
hands were dry and burning, there were moments when 
her lips had the pallor of the vail which floated over 
her forehead. She accepted remedies only from Suzanne’s 
hand ; but when Suzanne was not there, she poured out 
the liquor and smiled bitterly on seeing overflow that 
which was to bring some relief to her malady. One day 
as Suzanne surprised her emptying a vial, she snatched it 
from her fingers and constrained her to take what was left 
in the bottom of it. 

“Death is here!” said Gabrielle, striking with the end 
her oppressed breast; “you prolong my torture by some 
hours.” 

“My God! you shall live, my poor child, you shall live!” 
exclaimed Suzanne, who felt herself suffocated by tears. 

“And why do you wish me to live?” exclaimed Gabri- 
elle, bursting into sobs; “am I not lost to him?” 

At this cry Suzanne understood that the heart of 
Gabrielle was not less sick than her body. Terror and love 
together were killing her. Suzanne tenderly embraced her 
and wished to give back a little hope to that desolate soul ; 
but Gabrielle kept a mournful silence ; she shook her head 
and wept ; toward evening Suzanne put her to bed a prey 
to a burning fever. She passed a sleepless night ; but in 
the morning Gabrielle rose and was the first one to go to 
the chapel ; a cold sweat covered her forehead and fever 
shone in her looks. The unhappy child displayed a fright- 
ful energy in dying. When evening came, she leaned at 
times upon the window and looked at the setting sun ; the 
trees of the park were surrounded with a light vapor, the 
birds pursued each other in the branches, the leaves 
rustled, and on the horizon were to be seen great bands of 
light whose reflections inundated the sky with rosy light. 
A profound ecstasy was depicted upon therface of Gabri- 
elle, she extended her hands toward space and said, in a 
trembling voice: 

“My God ! how sweet it would be to live if one was loved 
and free!” 

Then she fell upon her knees, imploring death. A day came 
when her strength was unequal to her courage; she wished 
to rise at the first sounds of the bell, but her knees gave 
way, and Suzanne, who no longer quitted her, having 
raised her in her arms, placed her in bed again. The doc- 
tor came during the evening, and, having examined her, 
declared that she would not live through the next day.. 


242 


THE LAST HOUR. 


‘'It is a lamp without oil, ” said he. 

During the whole day Gabrielle had many times turned 
her sparkling eyes toward Suzanne, her lips had opened as 
if she had had something to confide to her, then her eyes 
and her mouth closed again, and she was heard praying 
quite low with hands clasped over her heart, in the austere 
attitude of the marble figures seen upon tombs. 

When night came Suzanne was left alone in the cell 
where Gabrielle was dying. The silence was lugubrious ; 
the oppressed breathing of Gabrielle had given way to a 
light respiration, which no longer made itself heard. Her 
eyelids were closed, her lips no longer moved ; she seemed 
to sleep. Suzanne piously kissed her on the forehead like 
a mother who blesses her child ; she was going to with- 
draw when Gabrielle, unclasping her hands, placed them 
around Suzanne’s neck. 

“Remain near me,” she said, in a whisper. 

Suzanne sat down upon the edge of the bed. 

“Listen to me, Suzanne,” continued Gabrielle, “I have 
a service to ask of you. Do you promise to render it to 
me?” 

“I promise you.” 

Gabrielle meditated for a moment, then searched under 
the lining of her pillow ; she drew forth a small box which 
contained a letter and a tress of hair. She unfolded the 
letter and pressed it to her lips ; her eyes filled with tears. 

“Look,” said she, “my tears have almost effaced the 
handwriting. For three years I have been living on this 
letter.” 

“Poor child, she is dying from it!” sighed Suzanne. 

“It is all that I have of his,” continued Gabrielle, in a 
sad voice, “I have not seen him for three years, and he 
does not know that I am going to die. ’ ’ 

“Oh! Gabrielle! whoever he is, if he had known this 
love, he would have saved you.” 

“He! but if he had sought me in marriage, he would 
have been killed! I have preferred to die!” exclaimed 
Gabrielle, pressing close to Suzanne. 

Suzanne shivered. 

“This is how this love came about,” continued Gabrielle, 
drying her eyes. “We were in the country, on our Mesle 
estate, near Mantes, my father, my sister, and myself. It 
was the happy time. The Chevalier d’Arraines — that is his 
name — came to pay us a visit. He was twenty-two or 
three years of age; he was amiable, proud, and intelligent. 
The sight of him troubled me singularly, and the whole 


THE LAST HOUB. 


243 


night I could not keep from thinking of him. This trouble 
increased on the following days; it was mixed with un- 
known sensations which delighted me, and nevertheless I 
dared not speak of it to my mother or even to my sister. I 
do not know whether the Chevalier d’Arraines noticed it, 
but it appeared to me that on every occasion when the 
family was assembled together he attached himself more 
particularly to me. When he spoke to me, his voice was 
soft and charming; when he looked at me, his eyes had an 
expression which touched me dee^dy. One evening — this 
evening has decided my life — he met me in an avenue of 
the park where I went to dream all alone. On seeing him 
I blushed, and felt myself tremble without knowing why. 
He came to me and took my hand ; and nevertheless I 
made no efiPort to detach myself from him. He spoke to 
me a long time*; he said to me those things which one 
dares not hear and which are nevertheless engraved in the 
depths of the heart. When he told me that he loved me, I 
thought I was going to die with happiness. All at once we 
heard walking near us ; I disengaged my hand and started 
to fly ; but before leaving, I dared look at him ; his eyes 
were so tender and suppliant, that if no one had been near, 
I should have fallen into his arms. The next day he went 
away,” continued Gabrielle. “His father sent him to the 
army; but, before leaving, the Chevalier d’Arraines sent 
me this letter, in which he repeated to me what he had 
said to me the evening before. ” 

“And since then?” questioned Suzanne. 

“Since then, I have heard nothing more of him. A short 
time after his departure, my mother fell sick, then died ; 
my sister followed my mother; the little child died also. 
Terror seized me, frightful dreams peopled my sleep ; at 
night I awoke in surprise, bathed in tears, and it seemed to 
me that phantoms touched my face with their icy hands. 
The word convent was murmured in my ears, I was told 
that it was a refuge; I came here. Alas! Suzanne, you 
know how I will leave it.” 

Suzanne no longer had strength to reply ; she held her 
friend embraced and wept over her. 

“You, Suzanne,” said Gabrielle, “you will leave here; 
one day, no doubt, you will meet Monsieur d’Arraines, 
happy, perhaps, and no longer thinking of me. You will 
tell him that you have seen me, you will show him at the 
bottom of this letter some words which I have written, 
and you will give him this tress of my hair. And then you 


244 


THE LAST HOUK. 


will tell him how I died. If he weeps over me, it seems to 
me that we shall not be separated forever ” 

Suzanne took the box from Gabrielle’s hands and con- 
cealed it under her dress. The day was about to dawn, 
and already the great trees were to be seen outlining their 
dark foliage upon the transparent sky. This long narrative 
had exhausted Gabrielle ; she rested her head upon the 
pillow and closed her eyes. Toward noon, she called for 
the confessor. Suzanne ran to warn the superior, the bells 
of the convent began to sound the funeral-knell, and the 
sisters went to the chapel, where soon was heard tli^. 
prayer for the dying. The Abbe St. Thomas d’Aquin, who 
was the convent’s confessor, went to Gabrielle’s c dl, 
carrying the holy viaticum and preceded by a chorus 
child who shook a little silver bell. Suzanne opened the 
door to the pious procession ; those of the sisters who were 
not in the chapel knelt in the corridor, and Gabrielle, 
at sight of the man of God, arose. The abbe, who was 
a pious and kind old man, approached the bed where 
Gabrielle was lying. The dying girl joined her hands and 
prepared for confession. The approach of death had 
spread over all her features an ineffable sweetness ; a soft 
smile half parted her lips, and the virginal candor of her 
forehead had a grace which no longer belonged to earth. 
At sight of this child, who was surrendering untroubled 
her soul to God, the old cure understood that he had 
nothing to pardon. 

“Speak, my daughter,” he said to her, in a kindly tone; 
“soon you will be with Him who consoles and blesses, and 
you will pray for us. ” 

Gabrielle related her life in a few words ; the cur^, had 
known it for a long time ; she had loved, she had suffered, 
she was going to die. No other noise was heard than the 
tinkling of the little silver bell, the distant murmur of the 
religious songs which floated in the air like a celestial 
harmony, and the stifled sobs of the young novices wdio 
were weeping around Suzanne. 

“Go in peace, you who have not sinned!” said the abbe, 
extending his trembling hands over the bowed forehead of 
Gabrielle. 

' The holy man took up the consecrated wafer and pre- 
sented it to Gabrielle. All heads were bowed. Mother 
Evangelique alone did not weep. Gabrielle smiled. After 
Gabrielle had taken the wafer, the old abbe placed in her 
hands a little ivory crucifi?c. Prayer filled the conven^ 
with its divine murmurs. Suzanne looked at Gabrielle’g 


AN ENGLISH HUSBAND. 


m 

face, with eyes full of affection and pressed to her breast 
the box in which this poor girl had placed all her heart. 
Through the narrow window was seen a corner of the blue 
sky where the light smiled; the trees shivered, and the 
swallows passed uttering joyous cries. The noises of the city 
mounted like a vague and confused sound. Gabrielle had 
the air of one going to sleep ; her face was calm and peace- 
ful as that of a child. Toward sunset she opened her eyes 
and again raised herself. Her looks sought Suzanne, at 
whom she smiled, then the sky. She saw the purple 
horizon and the yellow light which shone in the azure dis- 
tance. She pressed the Christ to her White lips, stretched 
her arm toward the sky and fell back, dead. All the 
sisters rose with saddened hearts; Suzanne bounded to 
Gabrielle’s bed and placed her trembling hand upon the 
young girl’s breast. The he^t no longer beat; no breath 
came from betw’een her lips.^^ 

“Let us pray God, my sisters,” said the priest, throwing 
holy water upon the body ;f her who was no more. 

And everybody knelt. 


CHAPTER XXXVII. 

AN ENGLISH HUSBAND. 

When Claudine reached England, accompanied by Grip- 
pard, she found her brother, if not out of danger, at least 
almost assured of getting well. The ball had lodged in his 
breast without injuring any essential part. The surgeon 
had probed the wound and believed that he could answer 
for the patient, unless some une^cpected accident happened. 
Cornelius had chosen a small cottage, in a retired quarter 
of the city, far from the noise and agitation of the 
port. There \vas a small garden around the house. 
The surgeon came twice or thrice a day ; and Cornelius 
and Deroute took turns about at the bedside of Belle-Rose. 
The interview of Cornelius and Claudine was intermixed 
with joy and tears; they had a thousand things to say to 
each other ; but Cornelius begged Claudine to say nothing 
to Belle-Rose concerning the disappearance of Suzanne, 
saying that this news might put him in danger of death. 
The days flowed away sadly between these three persons. 
All their happiness had been marred just at the time when 
it no longer seemed to have anything to dread. No news 


246 


AN ENGLISH HUSBAND. 


came from France; Belle-Rose recovered slowly; Grip- 
pard, who had been sent back to Paris to learn the fate of 
Suzanne, had not wudtten a single time. Cornelius had 
Claudine to console him ; Claudine had Cornelius ; but De- 
route had for aiding his patience only his fury against 
Bouletord. He passed his time in fuming like the devil, 
and it was a pleasant thing to see the contrast between his 
placid face and the horrible oaths which he heaped up 
from morning to evening. As Belle-Rose began to con- 
valesce, he asked more frequently for news of Suzanne, 
and was astonished not to receive it. One day Deroute 
presented himself before Cornelius and Claudine all 
equipped, with great boots, a cloak upon his shoulder, a 
rapier at his side, and a valise under his arm. 

“Monsieur,” said he, rapidly, to Cornelius, like a man 
who does not wish to suft'er any objection, “I come to ask 
you for your commissions as well as those of Mademoiselle 
Grinedal. ” 

“Where the devil are your going?” 

“To Paris.” 

“You will get yourself hung there.” 

“Bah! balls and bullets have not yet caught me, and it 
is not Bouletord who will do what they have not been able 
to do. Hold, monsieur, treat me as chicken-hearted if you 
wish, but my captain’s complaints have wrung my heart; 
I will have news of Suzanne, I will know what Monsieur 
de Louvois has done with her, and I will save her or die in 
the attempt. The end of the finger or only a letter from 
Madame d’Albergotti are worth more for curing my cap- 
tain than all those ingredients of every kind which are 
placed upon his wound.” 

Claudine and Cornelius each pressed one of Deroute’s 
hands. 

“Go,” they said to him, “and may God guide you.” 

“Oh!” said he, with his tranquil smile, “I have good 
feet, good eyes, and a good sword. I shall have gone far 
when Captain Belle-Rose comes to join me.” 

“How join you? Do you wish him, then, to go and get 
imprisoned in the Bastile again?” exclaimed Cornelius. 

“Come!” replied Deroute, “do you believe that my cap- 
tain is a man to remain with arms crossed when he knows 
that Madame d’Albergotti is locked up in a convent? 
Would you detain him at Dover?” 

“You are right,” said Claudine, shaking her head, 
‘ ‘ J acques shall leave. ’ ’ 

“Eh! morbleu! I knew it well! he will leave as soon as 


AN ENGLISH HUSBAND. 


247 


you inform him of it. I am going to prepare the 
rations. ’ ’ 

.Deroute embraced Belle-Rose, to whom he said that he 
was going to Paris to learn how their affairs were getting 
along, and left the same evening upon the boat of a fisher- 
man, who, through national animosity, was going to take 
his fish upon the coast of France.' While throwing his 
nets into the sea, he could easily throw Deroute upon the 
shore. 

One evening, about ten o’clock, while Cornelius and 
Belle-Rose. w’ere talking in Claudine’s presence, they heard 
in the street a great clashing of swords and broken cries. 
Cornelius grabbed his sword and ran to the door. Belle- 
Rose did likewise. 

“Eh ! Jacques, what are you doing!” exclaimed Claudine; 
“your wound is not yet closed.” 

“Is that a reason for letting people be assassinated?” re- 
plied Belle-Rose, and he descended the stair-way close 
behind Cornelius. 

The street was obscure, it was an out-of-the-way place 
where there were great walls inclosing vast gardens. 
Just as the two friends opened the door they heard calls 
for aid. 

“It is a Frenchman!” said Belle-Rose, and he ran toward 
the place from which the cries came. 

At the end of the thirty steps, Cornelius and he found 
themselves before three or four men who were attacking 
another driven into the corner of an old vrall. The man 
attacked made a buckler of his cloak rolled around his left 
arm and answered by rapid thrusts all those which were 
directed against him. Though he showed himself skillful 
and determined, the combat carried on in this manner 
could not last long. Belle-Rose and Cornelius, with swords 
raised, fell upon the assailants, who, seeing themselves 
surprised, first resisted and afterward took to flight ; one 
of them, struck by Belle-Rose, tottered a few steps and 
fell upon his knees. His comrades retraced their steps, 
seized him, and carried him away. As Belle-Rose and Cor- 
nelius were making ready to pursue them, the stranger 
stopped them. 

“Stop,” he said to them, “I know those brave men.” 

Cornelius and Belle-Rose, thoroughly astonished, looked 
at the stranger. 

“Oh !” he continued, “it is a little quarrel which we have 
had together ; I will relate it to you, if you will kindly add 
to your valiant intervention the present of a glass of water. 


248 


AN ENGLISH HUSBAND. 


This little fight has warmed me up, and I should not be 
vexed, besides, to see if the swords of those good fellows 
have not scratched something else besides my coat.” 

Belle-Eose and Cornelius conducted the Frenchman to 
fcheir lodgings, where they found Olaudine much disturbed 
and waiting for them upon the door step. When the light 
in the room struck them, they i)erceived that Belle-Kose 
had his shirt and trousers all covered with blood. 

“Are you wounded?” the stranger cried. 

“I do not think so, monsieur; it is a recent wound 
which has opened again during the action. 

“It is still blood shed for me,” said the stranger; “blood 
is a tie that unites. ’ ’ 

And he extended his hand to Belle-Rose, who pressed it. 
After examination, the stranger found that he had five or 
six scratches ; his-cloak, having done nearly all the parry- 
ing, was horribly torn. 

“Messieurs,” said the stranger, saluting, “1 am the 
Comte de Pomereux, envoy of Monsieur de Louvois. ” 

At this announcement the two friends exchanged a 
rapid glance. 

“In faith, monsieur,” replied Belle-Rose, “will you par- 
don me if I do not imitate j^our frankness? I am a French- 
man, like yourself, but grave motives oblige me to conceal 
my name.” 

“The arm answers for the heart, ” said Monsieur de 
Pomereux; “the rest does not concern me.” 

At the name of Monsieur de Pomereux, Claudine had 
trembled and furtively looked at him. She went about 
the room, preparing glasses of sugarel wine and com- 
presses ; then, when everything was ready, she withdrew, 
fearing to be recognized by the count,, who had seen her 
sometimes at Malzonvilliers. This might be a vexatious 
discovery on the part of an envoy of Monsieur de Louvois. 

“Monsieur,” said Monsieur de Pomereux, addressing 
himself to Cornelius, when Claudine had moved away, 
“the people of your nation — for, by your accent, I imagine 
that you are English ” 

“Irish, monsieur,” replied Cornelius. 

“Exactly; I only missed it by a strait; the people of 
your nation, I say, have strange manners. I came near 
being killed because it seemed to me that certain women 
of this country had the impertinence to be as pretty as 
Frenchwomen. ” 

“What! for that only?” said Belle-Rose. 

“Eh ! my God ! yes. It is a supposition of which I know 


AN ENGIJSH HUSBAND. 


249 


the right or wrong. Now, being at Dover, 'waiting for a 
dispatch from oiir embassador at London, I came across 
one of these Englishwomen who would not have been out 
of place at the court of our great king. I was growing 
very weary, and, to pass away the time in a useful man- 
ner, I employed my mind to penetrate to the lady’s 
domicile.” 

“Always foi the study which interested you?” said 
Cornelius. 

“Always, monsieur. I succeeded therein, and I was able 
to convince myself that the ladies of the good city of 
Dover know how to appreciate that little merit which I 
have acquired at the court of our glorious monarch. It 
was a discovery "svliich 'was about to reconcile me to Eng- 
land, 'when the husband — for there is a husband, mes- 
sieurs ” 

“There is always a husband,” observed Belle-Rose, 
whom the pleasant humor of Monsieur de Pomereux 
diverted. 

“Oftentimes there are even two of them; the known and’ 
the unknown, who is at times the cousin. Here there was 
only one, but he was doubled by t'wo brothers and a 
brother-in-law. I do not know who made to all of these 
relatives reports concerning the honesty of my relations 
with the lady, which were all for the love of science. The 
husband spread the rumor that he was going to leave for 
London ; and while, confiding in his word, I went to intro- 
duce myself into the lady’s home, he attaciied me with 
the aid of his relatives. Had it not been for you, mes- 
sieurs, I would have been left on the field.” 

“That would have been unfortunate for science, ” said 
Cornelius, gravely. 

“It is a monstrous proceeding, monsieur!” exclaimed 
the count, with a comic indignation. “It is one of those 
things which are not permitted in France. Ah! fie! to 
wish to kill a man because he pays court to your wife; but 
there is no security here for lovers. What ! a man jiretends 
to leave, even goes away, then returns by stealth, hides 
behind a wall, and when the lover comes tranquilly forth, 
all at once pounces upon him, storming and swearing, in 
order to massacre him. It is a savage, barbarous, Mussul- 
manic proceeding!” 

“It really is, ” observed Cornelius. “A well-informed 
husband would have extended a ladder to assist you in 
climbing to his balcony.” 


250 


AN ENGLISH HUSBAND. 


“Oil! pardieu ! I did not ask so much of him, and I would 
have been satisfied if he had only remained tranquil.” 

“That is honest. ” 

“The fact is that my coat is all slashed as a result of it. 
A coat which I had brought expressly from Paris, and one 
which has no counteriDart at Dover; this calls for ven- 
geance. ” 

“Bless me!” said Cornelius, “if he has spoiled your 
satin, I have every reason to believe, from the color of 
your sword, that you have slightly spoiled his flesh. It 
seems, then, that you are quits.” 

“Faith, monsieur, you do not much esteem satin cut in 
the most gallant fashion. And then, the gentleman whom 
monsieur struck,” added he, turning in . the direction of 
Belle-Rose, “will certainly recollect the adventure.” 

“I am enchanted to have come to your aid,” said Belle- 
Rose, “but I should much regret to have killed him.” 

“Oh! fear nothing, he is the husband. This sort of Eng- 
lishman is very tough. After all,” continued Monsieur de 
Pomereux, “the adventure has this good side — it will 
determine me to pass over to France. I am cured of Brit- 
tanic good fortune ; here the only way to love is with a 
dagger in the hand. I shall return to Paris and get 
married.” 

“You?” said Cornelius. 

“Parbleu! I shall be, upon my word, a marvelous hus- 
band. It is a marriage which I have contracted a taste for 
because the lady does not wish it. It is Monsieur de Lou- 
vois’ way.” 

“Ah!” said Belle-Rose. 

“He is a minister who mixes a little in everything. He 
has had the triumphant idea of giving me for wife a lady 
whom he has placed in a convent.” 

At these words, Cornelius pricked up his ears. 

“That is pleasant,” said he. 

“Yes, it is a little vengeance of my magnificent cousin. 
It appears that the lady has for fiance a certain Belle-Rose 
who has escaped from prison.” 

It was Belle-Rose’s turn to tremble. 

“Belle Rose!” he exclaimed. 

“You know him?” asked the count. 

Cornelius pressed Belle-Rose’s knee in order to constrain 
him to be silent. 

“Oh!” said he, “I have known him in Flanders, when 
he was sergeant in the regiment of La Ferte. ” 

“Se/rgeant!” repeated Monsieur de Pomereux, with a 


AN ENGLISH HUSBAND. 251 

disdainful air. “Ah, come! what sort of a man is he, 
then?” 

“A man almost of my stature and my air, who handles 
the sword passably well, and who passes for a very honest 
soldier. ” 

“Ah! ah! and it is this gentleman who has made himself 
loved by Madame d’Albergotti?” 

“She still loves him, then?” exclaimed Belle-Hose, in a 
voice filled with emotion. 

“Does she love him? Say, rather, that she adores him. 
It is incredible that women should have such ideas. I who 
speak to you, a count, a relative of Monsieur de Louvois, 
and who will nave a regiment some day, have been re- 
fused by Madame d’Albergotti.” 

“Noble heart!” said Belle-Hose, in a low tone. 

“Ah! you think so!” said Monsieur de Pomereux, who 
had heard him. “Well, faith! I have done like you— and 
what is stranger, it is that I have come to esteem her 
much. Yes, upon, my word. She has appeared tome so 
simiile, so chaste in all things that I have fallen unre- 
servedly in love with her.” 

“Ah, bah!” said Cornelius, who pressed Belle-Hose’s 
arm. 

“Faith, ’tis true, or almost so. The duse! I am a gentle- 
man, and I do not wush her to die in a convent.” 

“She shall not die there,” said Belle-Hose, in a deep 
tone. 

“That is also my opinion,” said Monsieur de Pomereux; 
“unfortunately it is not the opinion of a certain Monsieur 
de Charny, to whom my precious cousin has committed 
the care of this affair. ” 

“Monsieur de Charny?” repeated Belle-Hose. 

“A certain rascal capable of everything, venomous as a 
viper, and tenacious as glue. When he is in conference 
with Monsieur de Louvois, I am always afraid for some 
one.” 

“But what harm has Madame d'Albergotti done him?” 

“Him? nothing; but Monsieur de Charny is a man who 
shares the hates of the minister as one does those of a 
mistress.” 

“What a wretch!” said Cornelius. 

“He is a wretch such as is necessary, thev say, to the 
viziers given us by the caprice of our gracious monarch ; 
mute as the tomb, ready at any hour, impenetrable as 
night. Eh! messieurs! these scoundrels have their uses. 


252 


AN ENGLISH HUSBAND. 


For the rest, thanks to my relationship with our illustrious 
minister, he is to some extent my friend.” 

“Monsieur de Charny?” 

“Eh! my God, yes. Only, when he does me the honor to 
eat at my table, as soon as he is gone I have thrown out at 
the window all that he has touched,” replied Monsieur de 
Pomereux, rising. 

He arranged the knots of his ribbons, readjusted his 
cloak, took up his felt hat, which he had placed upon a 
piece of furniture, and extended his hand to the two 
friends. 

“I am going to France, messieurs,” he said to them; 
“recollect that if ever you have need of a purse or a 
sword, whatever the occasion may be, day or night, far or 
near, the Comte de Pomereux places himself entirely at 
your disposal.” 

As he pronounced these words the count saluted Cornelius 
and Belle-Rose with a grace and a nobility which made the 
two friends conceive a better opinion of his character. 
When he had withdrawn, Belle-Rose called Claudine. 

“Sister,” ho said to her, “we leave to-morrow.” 

At the gesture which she made, Belle-Rose interrupted 
her by a word : 

“I know all. ” 

“Yes,” continued Cornelius, “Monsieur de Pomereux 
has related everything to him.” 

“Then you knew it and did not say anything to me!” 
said Belle- Rose, with an accent of reproach. 

“Death was hovering over you — could we speak?” said 
Cornelius. 

“And even now,” added Claudine, “you are scarcely 
able to walk. ” 

“I would have to be nailed up in a coffin to stay here!” 
exclaimed Belle-Rose. 

The accent of his voice and the expression of his face 
permitted no objection. 

“It is understood, ” said Cornelius; and he added, lean- 
ing toward Claudine: “Deroute knew what he was talking 
about.” 

The preparations were soon made. They packed clothes 
in a valise, procured themselves some coarse wearing ap- 
parel, placed gold in a belt, provided themselves with 
arms, and they found next day one of those hospitable 
fishermen sroing to fish upon the coasts of France, who con- 
sented to take the three young people with him. It was a 
good action which brought him in ten pounds sterling. 


THE SIEGE OF THE CONVENT. 


253 


CHAPTER XXXVIIL 

THE SIEGE OF THE CONVENT. 

Belle-Rose, Cornelius, and Claudine arrived at Paris 
without any startling adventure. They had disguised 
themselves so as not to he recognized, and the very au- 
dacity of their enterprise protected them. It was almost 
impossible that Monsieur de Louvois should suppose for 
one moment that Belle-Rose would dare present himself so 
soon in France. When Belle-Rose entered Paris, Deroute 
had already been there fifteen days. The honest sergeant 
had not lost time. After having prowled around Mon- 
sieur de Louvois’ hotel, questioning the people who 
might give him some information concerning the object of 
his researches, he understood the usefulness of this es- 
pionage. So many carriages left the court at every hour 
of the day and night that the neighbors, seeing them all, 
did not recollect any particular one of them. Deroute 
turned his batteries in another direction. The prowess of 
Bouletord, who had made such advances in the minister’s 
favor, ought, perhaps, to render him the messenger of 
private commissions. Deroute was so successful as to 
promptly discover the quartermaster, and no longer 
quitted him. During three days he traversed the half of 
Paris, following close upon the heels of Bouletord; hut 
Bouletord, who stopped a little everywhere, did not stop 
before any convent. Deroute began to ask himself if he 
would not do well to wait for Bouletord at the corner of 
some passage, and to force him to confess hjs secret with a 
poniard at his threat, when one evening Grippard, who 
had also attached himself to Bouletord, in company with 
whom he paid a visit to all the cabarets of Paris, came all 
out of breath to inform him that Bouletord was to carry a 
dispatch the next day to one of the convents of Paris. 

“I have it!” said Deroute, embracing Grippard. 

Early the next morning he was at the door of Boule- 
tord ’s barrack, dressed as a lackey. When Bouletord 
went out, Deroute placed himself on his track and only 
quitted him at the door of the convent in the Rue du 
Cherche Midi. This convent had an immense extent ; its 
garden even stretched as far as the Rue de Vangirard on 
one side, and on the other occupied the grounds over 
which the exterior boulevard has come later on. Deroute 


254 


TPIE SIEGE OF THE CONVENT. 


went around the convent ; the walls were high, thick, and 
impenetrable, but Deroute had set out to see what could 
be seen, even if he did not penetrate inside the convent. 

“If Madame d’Albergotti is in the convent, she must 
sometimes walk in the gardens; let there be a little corner 
where 1 can conceal myself, and I will manage to see her,” 
he said to liimself. • 

As he was still speaking, he spied a high house i:)rovided 
with a garret, the window of which gave upon the gardens 
of the convent. The distance which separated the gardens 
from this window was great ; but Deroute had the eyes of 
a lynx. He ran to this house and knocked. It was an old 
woman who opened the door. 

“Madame,” Deroute said to her, “you see what I am 
from my dress; I am in the employ of some honest people 
who live near here, in the Rue de Sevres. My employers 
are in the country, the house is being overhauled, and 
while waiting for the completion of the task, I am looking 
out foi a room which I can occupy. I have money, madam e, 
and I pay in advance.” 

Upon which Deroute slipped two crowns into the old 
woman’s hand. 

“This comes in just right,” replied the old woman; 
“we have a pretty cabinet to rent which will suit you 
wonderfully well. ’ ’ 

This pretty cabinet "was a frightful hole, but Deroute 
affirmed upon his honor that he had never seen such a 
charming retreat and so well furnished with all the com- 
modities of life; he was astonished that such an apartment 
could be rented for two crowns. The old lady then with- 
drew, and the honest sergeant having carefully bolted the 
door, ran to the post of observation. He remained at the 
window till nightfall and returned the next day at dawn ; 
he only quitted it to swallow a piece of steak which the 
old woman had prepared for him and which he declared 
the most succulent in the world. This proceeding lasted 
three days. Deroute had seen thirty or forty nuns 
and twenty novices, but not one of them resembled 
Madame d’Albergotti. Finally, on the fourth day, he 
])erceived a nun whose figure made him tremble at the 
first step she made upon the terrace. The sergeant leaned 
out of the window and clapped his hands. The nun turned 
around, and he recognized her perfectly. To see her was 
an easy thing — but it was a question of getting her out of 
the convent. This is what Deroute employed his imagina- 
tion to do. He began by dispatching his aide-de camp 


THE SIEGE OF IHE COKVElNT. 255 

Grippard to Boiiletorcl, with a mission to get himself re- 
ceived in the police. It was an honest means of pene- 
trating the secrets of the quartermaster, and to be fore- 
warned in case there was any plot to carr^^- off Madame 
d’Albergotti to some other convent. As to himself, he 
resolved to enter the house of the Benedictine nuns as a 
gardener. He was at this point in his projects when Belle- 
Hose, Cornelius, and Claudine arrived. Deroute had taken 
care, on leaving, to give Cornelius an address where he 
could find him ; it was an inn in the Rue des Bourgeois- 
St. Michel, at the sign of the Hoi David. Deroute w^ent 
there every evening under divers costumes, and passed an 
hour or two there in seeing the frequenters of the place 
play cards and dice. The evening on which Cornelius en- 
tered the hostelry of the Hoi David, he had some difficulty 
in recognizing the sergeant, who had on a black wig and a 
magnificent beard. Belle-Rose w^as waiting in the street. 

“I know* wdiere she is,” Deroute said to him, as soon as 
he perceived him ; and he related what he had done. 

Belle-Rose embraced him. 

“There are three of us,” said he; “neither bars, walls, 
nor doors, nor locks can stop us.” 

It was first necessary to make arrang^i^nents for taking 
a lodging where importunate visits were not to be dreaded. 
Belle-Rose at once named Monsieur Meriset. 

“I have been there too often for them to. think of look- 
ing for me there,” said he. 

And they all took the way to the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. 
Sulpice. On seeing Belle-Rose, Monsieur Meriset witnessed 
great suri^rise. 

“And the Bastile?” he murmured, in a stifled voice. 

“Well, what of the Bastile?” 

“You have gone there?” 

“And I have left it.” 

“Quite sure?” 

“You see for yourself,” said Belle-Rose, laugliing. 

“Yes, yes, it is indeed you. But pardon my hesitation; 
there are people skillful enough to assume all sorts of 
figures.” 

“Certainly.” 

“This dear Monsieur Belle-Rose — lam delighted to see 
him again. So you come to lodge with me?” 

“Yes, my good Monsieur Meriset. Where shall I find a 
better host. But, you understand, for special reasons I 
desire not to be known; you will not name me.” 


256 


THE SIEGE OF THE CONVENT. 


“I understand,” said Monsieur Meriset ; “it is again for 
affairs of state. ” 

“As you wish. It is agreed, is it not?” 

“The house is yours.” 

Deroute had taken care not to give up the cabinet where 
he had established his observatory. It might be a means 
of establishing communications with the interior of the 
convent, as soon as it could be made known to Suzanne 
that her friends were seeking her. Belle-Kose’s impatience 
did not permit him to wait; he set out to invest the place 
the very next day. The plan of the campaign was the 
invention of Claudine. She dressed like an Irishwoman, 
and mounting the carriage with Cornelius, she had herself 
taken to the convent in the Hue du Cherche-Midi. Cor- 
nelius, who was from Connaught, spoke English almost as 
well as if he had been from Middlesex. Claudine had 
quickly learned the tongue of her betrothed, and she 
already spoke it with ease. They arrived before the door 
of the convent, where, after having rang, they were re- 
ceived by the attendant. 

“Will you,” Cornelius said to her, with an English ac- 
cent too pronounced not to be affected, request the superior 
to kindly come down to the parlor.” 

“Is it for a pressing affair?” asked the attendant. 

“You will say to her that it is a question of a young 
lady, whom her brother, an Irish gentleman, intends to 
leave at the convent, where, if she chooses, she can 
renounce her rank.” 

At these words the attendant bowed, and, making the 
two strangers sit down, disappeared throu^i a little door 
which opened upon a gallery. 

“This is the way we must introduce ourselves,” said 
Claudine, quite low to Cornelius, when they were alone ; 
“you are my brother, your name is Sir Ralph Hastings, 
and I am Miss Harriet Hastings, your sister; I am seized 
with a great devotion which leads me to enter a con- 
vent.” 

After a moment the attendant came back and showed 
Claudine and Cornelius into the parlor. The superior was 
there. 

“I have been informed of the object of your visit to this 
holy house, ” said Mother Evangelique; “we never refuse 
to open our arms to hearts wTiich wish to consecrate them- 
selves to God. ” 

“I thank you, my mother,” replied Claudine, in a sweet 
voice which seemed to come from an English mouth. 


THE SIEGE OF THE CONVENT. 


257 


“You will be sheltered here from the snares of the 
world. This is a house in which peace reigns, ’ ’ 

“My sister has the wish,” said Cornelius; “I will 
not hide the fact, madame, that her family and myself 
have opposed it a long time.” 

“It is to stand in the way of the Lord, my son.” 

“That is w’hat I have understood later on, and to-day I 
no longer desire to turn her from her project. I have set 
aside the part w’hich falls to her from her mother’s estate, 
and this shall be her dowry ; there is, in all, eight thou- 
sand pounds sterling. ” 

“Eight thousand pounds sterling?” repeated Mother 
Evangelique. 

“Eight thousand pounds,” continued Cornelius, negli- 
gently, “this makes a round sum of two hundred thousand 
francs.” 

“We never look at the dowry,” said the superior; “the 
heart is the only wealth which the Madonna desires ; but 
this money will aid us in doing good.” 

The conversation continued upon this footing some mo- 
ments still; after which Cornelius, drawing from his 
pocket a purse in which there were almost fifty louis, 
asked the superior to accept it for distribution as alms. 

Claudine did not feel any joy in penetrating the interior 
of the convent ; she looked everywhere to see if she could 
not perceive Suzanne; but, on this day, she had to content 
herself with the pleasure of simply sleeping under the 
same roof. Suzanne did not appear in the refectory. But 
the next day, at the morning prayer, she recognized Su- 
zanne among the novices. She was kneeling with her 
companions upon the marble, and her forehead was bowed 
over her clasped hands. Claudine wept over her prayer- 
book. Presently the ceremony came to a conclusion, the 
last songs died undar the sonorous vaults; Claudine aban- 
doned her chair and went to where the nuns passed along, 
followed by the novices. Suzanne was one of the last of 
the procession; as she passed before Claudine, with fore- 
head lowered and hands crossed over her heart, Claudine 
lightly touched with the end of her fingers the long dress 
of Madame d’Albergotti ; Suzanne turned her eyes and en- 
countered the brilliant glance of Claudine, who had one 
finger upon her li^DS to command silence. The procession 
pushed Suzanne forward, she continued her silent walk ; 
but this morning she did not leave the chapel without 
blessing God. Suzanne did not stay in her cell on this day. 
About noon she descended to the garden and traversed the 


258 


THE GARDENEK’S NEPHEW. 


walks nearest the entrance door. At the end of a quarter 
of an hour she met Claudine, who was w^alking by the 
side of a nun. They exchanged a glance and passed on. 

The next day Claudine went to the gardens unaccom- 
panied by any one. As soon as she saw Suzanne, she 
plunged into the most somber part of the gardens where 
the shade of the elms was thickest. Light steps were 
heard behind her, and Suzanne ran up to her with ex- 
tended arms. The two friends embraced each other with 
tears in their eyes. 


CHAPTER XXXIX. 

THE gardener’s NEPHEW. 

After the first effusions of a mutual affection which ab- 
sence had increased, Suzanne took Claudine ’s hands in 
hers. 

“Come, Claudine, hide nothing from me ; Belle-Rose ” 

“Would I be joyous if he was not here?” exclaimed the 
young girl. 

“Here!” repeated Suzanne, who became pale with hap- 
piness. 

“We are all here; my brother, Cornelius, Deroute, and 
our poor Gripj)ard also; it is a conspiracy.” 

“Tell me about it quickly.” 

“I will, but not here.” 

Claudine took Suzanne’s arm and went to the center of 
the park, where there was an arbor from which they 
could escape in case of surprise. 

“Now the enemy can come,” said Claudine, sitting 
down. 

Suzanne had the details repeated twenty times; but 
Claudine finally interrupted her. 

“You cause me to lose precious time,” said she; “it is 
first necessary to deliver you.” 

“That is quite difficult! I have so many enemies who 
hate me!” 

“But you have so many friends who love you!” 

“I have four of them.” 

“Do you know many people who can say as much?” 

“Pardon me, Claudine; liberty with you would be hap- 
piness, and I have suffered so much that I no longer 
believe in it.” 

“I leave to Jacques the care of making you believe in it, 


THE GARDENER’S NEPHEW. 


259 


and it is a care of which he will willingly acquit himself. 
But let ns no longer speak of this; in what part of the 
convent are you lodged?” 

“In the right wing; you can see my room from here. 
Down there at the end.” 

“It is twenty feet from the ground.” 

“Almost.” 

“If need be you can descend with your hod-clothes tied 
together?” 

“I believe so; but there are dogs.” 

‘ ‘ Castor and Pollux. ’ ’ 

“Ah! you know them?” 

“I know everything. ” 

“Then you know that they are turned loose at night.” 

“Perfectly. Do you recollect mythology, Suzanne?” 

“A little.” 

“Well, we well treat Castor and Pollux as Cerberus was 
treated. Our friend Deroute will take care to provide him- 
self with a quarter of lamb.” 

“But after the dogs, there are the gardeners.” 

“We will put them to sleep.” 

“And then the walls.” 

“We will cross them.” 

“And there is still Monsieur de Louvois.” 

“We will laugh at him.” 

“And Monsieur de Charny.” 

“Oh! he is a man who will do well not to present him- 
self before our friend Jacques.” 

“Stay, Claudine!” said Suzanne, who had not been able 
to pronounce the name of the minister and that of his 
favorite without shuddering, “if this attempt should make 
Jacques meet the least danger, I would prefer to take the 
vail and die here.” 

“And if you should have to remain at the convent only 
fifteen days longer, Jacques would prefer to enter the 
Bastile and never leave it.” 

“Poor friend!” 

“Come!” said Claudine, “let us come to an understand- 
ing. Cornelius comes to the parlor every two days.” 

“It is rather often.” 

“Quite true. He informs ;me of the projects which Belle- 
Rose, Deroute, and himself have combined ; while they 
act on the outside, we act on the inside ; I get possession of 
Sister Assumption’s keys, and familiarize myself with 
Castor and Pollux, we leave every day some gold-pieces in 


260 


THE GABDENER’S NEPHEW. 


the hands of the gardeners; and, on the day fixed for the 
escape, wo are ready.” 

“Ah! my God!” exclaimed Suzanne, all at once, “Mother 
Scholastiqiie !” 

“Save themselves who can!” replied Claudine, turning 
her head in the direction of the nun. 

One took one direction, and the other the opposite one. 

While Suzanne and Claudine were consihring inside the 
convent, Deroute was not losing any time outside. He 
pushed at the same time Grippard’s entrance into the 
police force and his own into the gardens of the good 
sisters. The same day as that on which took place Suzanne 
and Claudine’s conference, the half of his wish was real- 
ized; Grippard came to surprise him at the hostelry of the 
Roi David in his uniform as member of the police force. 

“Ah!” said Deroute, “you have succeeded, then?” 

“It was necessary, asT had sworn it.” 

“You are obstinate, I can see.” 

“As a Breton, though born in Picardy. But I have had 
some trouble about it. ” 

“Really!” 

“Since the Villejuif affair, Bouletord has become as sus- 
picious as a monk. I have had to make four attempts be- 
fore succeeding. ” 

‘ ‘ So much trouble to obtain this ugly uniform as all 
that!” 

“It has cost me thirty bottles of the best Argenteuil, 
seasoned with lies and hams.” 

“Ah! you lie, also?” 

“Sometimes,” said Grippard, with a modest air. “It is 
a pretty defect which occasionally serves better than the 
most virtuous qualities.” 

“That is true,” replied Deroute, philosophically. 

“And that is what brought me success.” 

“Tell me about it. ” 

“Oh ! it is \'ery simple. At our first dinner he has shown 
some of his hatred against Belle-Rose ; this has made me 
reflect. At the second dinner that if my caj)tain was a 
captain, it was through a thousand villanies. ” 

“The beggar!” exclaimed Deroute, apiflying a furious 
blow of the fist to the table. 

“At the third dinner,” continued Grippard, “a magnifi- 
cent idea suddenly struck me; I confided to him the fact 
that I hated Belle-Rose with a deathly hatred. Bouletord 
came near embracing me. I related to him a terrible his- 
tory from which my captain came out as black as ink. 


THE GAKDENEB’S NEPHEW. 


261 


‘Quartermaster,’ I have said to him, ‘enroll me in your 
squad, and we will kill him together.’ Bouletord was 
much moved; he has pressed my hand, swearing upon his 
soul that I was a gallant man. I have signed an ugly 
paper which he has drawn from his pocket, and now I am 
one of the king’s archers. ” 

“Eh! that is not so badly done!” exclaimed Deroute. 

“One sometimes knows the air without knowing the 
words,” replied Grippard, looking at himself in the smoky 
mirror which ornamented the cabaret. 

“It is a first success, ” replied Deroute ; “you are now 
master of the enemy’s secrets, and if I penetrate into the 
heart of the place, we are sure of succeeding.” 

“Then I entreat you to make haste.” 

‘ ‘ W hat do you mean ? ” 

“It is known that Belle-Rose has left England; his 
IDresence at Paris is suspected. Monsieur de Charny has 
put the police on the lookout for him, and Bouletord has 
undertaken to watch the convent.” 

“Well, return to Bouletord; I shall go and talk this over 
with my captain and Cornelius.” 

As he went along Deroute revolved a thousand projects 
for introducing himself into the convent garden ; but it 
was in vain — he could think of nothing. It was in this 
frame of mind that he arrived in the Rue du Pot-de-Fer 
St. Sulpice, at the worthy Monsieur Meriset’s. 

“Eh, friend! what is the matter now?” exclaimed Cor- 
nelius at sight of the sergeant who had the countenance of 
a philosopher short of philosophy. 

“The matter is if we do not carry the place by assault, 
it will be necessary to raise the siege.” 

And Deroute imparted to him th6 revelations of Grip- 
pard. 

“You have spoken,” said Cornelius, “now read.” 

Deroute took the paper which Cornelius handed to him ; 
it was a letter from Claudine containing these words : 

‘T have made the gardener talk; he is expecting his nephew, 
whose name is Ambrose Patu, and whom he has never seen; this 
nephew is a native of Beaiigency. He is to come this evening by the 
coach and to descend at the hostelry of the Cheval Noir, Rue du Four 
St. Germain, presenting himself to-morrow morning at the convent. 
It seems to me that this news presents an excellent opportunity.” 

On reading this note. Deroute leaped with joy!^ 

“I am in the gardens!” he exclaimed. 

“No; it is I who will go there,” replied Belle-Rose. 


262 


THE GAEDENER’S NEPHEW. 


“You?” 

“Yes, my friend,” interrupted Cornelius, “it is an idea 
of the captain — he pretends that his place is in the garden. ” 

“Certainly, since Suzanne is there,” said Belle-Rose. 

“And it is you who wish to don the dress of a youthful^ 
gardener?” said Deroute. 

“Certainly.” 

“There is only one little inconvenience — the first look 
a nun throws at you will tell her that you are a 
gentleman.” 

“Eh! my friend, I have handled the pruning-hill.” 

“But you wear a sword! Stay, captain, let me tell you 
one thing. I do not know what the future reserves for us, 
but once in that cage of stone which is named a convent, 
one is never sure of leaving it. If you are discovered, what 
will you do?” 

“I shall be killSd before I am taken.” 

“This is all very well for you, but when you are dead, 
what will happen to Madame d-Albergotti?” 

Belle-Rose sighed. 

“Do you wish me to tell you?” continued Deroute, “she 
would die. What you intend to do, I wjll do better than 
you, having the language and manners of a poor devil, 
woman or villager. If I perish in the enterprise, it will be 
time for you to take my place.” 

Belle-Rose took his comrade’s hand and pressed it. 

“Do as you wish, ” he said to him. 

Deroute did not 'wait for him to say it twice and left for 
the hostelry of the Cheval Noir, after having put on a coat 
which gave him the appearance of an artisan. In the dusk 
he saw arrive a strapping young fellow, carrying under 
his arm a small valise and at the end of a stick a package 
tied up in a handkerchief with white and blue squares. 
This young man went along looking at all the signs, his 
hat thrown back, his mouth open, and dragging his gaiters 
along the gutter, with an astonished air. The sleeves of 
his coat only reached to his elbows, and his hair fell like 
fiax over his ears. 

“Hey! Ambrose Patu!” cried Deroute, running to meet 
him. 

The young fellow leaped to the other side of the gutter 
thoroughly frightened. His valise came near rolling in 
the mud,*and he remained planted upon his long legs in 
the very middle of the street. 

“Stay,” said he, “you know me?” 


THE GAEDENEirS NEPHEW. 


263 


“Parbleu! if I did not know you, would I have called 
you?” 

“That is true,” replied Ambrose; “but all the same, it 
is very funny that you should know my name when I do 
not know yours.” 

“I will explain this to you. But first, I wish to assure 
myself that you are indeed the man whom I desire to see. ” 

“If it is Ambrose Patu whom you seek, I am the man.” 

“Oh ! in your country things do not go that way. There 
are so many people who seek to deceive others.” 

“I am not one of those people.” 

“I do not doubt it, and your countenance answers for 
you ; but it is necessary to take precautions. Come ! you 
say, then, that you are Ambrose Patu?” 

“Ambrose Patu, from a little neighborhood near Beau- 
gency.” 

“That is it, and you come to enter, in the capacity of gar- 
dener, the convent of Benedictine nuns in the Rue du 
Cherche-Midi?” 

“Quite right. It is my Uncle Jerome Patu who has 
sent for me.” 

“Exactly. You are seeking the Cheval Noir, and to- 
morrow morning, you are to go to the convent with a 
letter from your honest old mother.” 

“That is it,” said Ambrose, who, thoroughly stupefied, 
drew the letter from his pocket. 

“Very well,” said Deroute; “I see that you do not seek 
to deceive me. Follow me, then, friend Patu ; the inn is 
near here; we have matters to talk about.” 

Ambrose followed without doubting such a prudent 
person and entered the Cheval Noir. Astonished at what 
he had heard, the honest fellow would have doubted the 
virtue of his patron saint before suspecting the probity of 
his guide. Deroute asked for a room, had a table set with 
two covers, ordered the unsealing of a bottle of the best 
wine, and, when the dinner was served, bolted the door. 

“Sit down there,” said he to his companion, who had 
looked at all the preparations without breathing a word ; 
“here is a little Suresne which you will sample forme, 
and a ‘gibelotte’ such as one eats only at the table of a 
king.” 

Ambrose sat down, stretched out his long legs, and 
emptied his glass at a draught. 

“Ah, comrade,” said he, smacking his lips, “you who 
know me so well, tell me a little about yourself.” 

“Tliat is just,” said Deroute, “I also am a Patu,” 


264 


THE GARDENER’S NEPHEW. 


“Ah, bah!” 

“Oh! my God, yes! but a Patu of a different branch, a 
Patu from Soissons, cousin of your uncle Jerome Patu.” 

“You are still of the family, let you be from Beaugency 
or from Soissons.” 

“Certainly, the name is everything, the country noth- 
ing ; I say, then, that I am a Patu — Antoine Patu, called 
Patu Blondinet. ’ ’ 

“That is a funny nickname.” 

“Yes, very funny. I get it from the cCJfior of my hair.” 

“In that respect I also would be a Blondinet,” said Am- 
brose, laughing. 

“That would make two Blondinets in the family, ” re- 
plied Deroute, who kept on filling the glass of Ambrose 
Patu. “Now, when my Cousin Jerome had learned of your 
arrival, he said something like this to me : ‘Antoine, my 
friend, go see your nephew, and when you have treated 
him well, send him back immediately to the country.’ ” 

“What!” exclaimed Ambrose, letting fall his fork. 

“Unless it pleases him to iDecome a monk,” he has 
added. 

“But he has had me to come for being a gardener, and 
not for being a monk!” said Ambrose, who picked up 
again a piece of rabbit with the end of his fork. 

“That was because just then Jerome did not know all. 
The king has issued an edict.” 

“What have I to do with the edict?” 

“Drink this glass of white wine and you will under- 
stand better.” 

Ambrose took the glass and pricked up his ears. 

“This is how it is,” continued Deroute: “The edict of 
tlie king prescribes that all individuals employed in the 
interior of convents must take the frock; where there 
are nuns he wishes that there should be monks.” 

“It is abominable.” 

“Certainly, but it is the king’s will.” 

“What will Catherine say, who is waiting for me in the 
country.” 

“That is just what Jerome said to me this morning; 
that poor Catherine, what will become of her? After all 
this can "“be arranged, you will become a monk, my dear 
Ambrose, and Catherine will marry somebody else.” 

“No! no!” exclaimed Ambrose, **‘I have promised Cath- 
erine to marry her, and I will marry her.” 

“I believe you! a pretty girl!” 

“You have seen her?” 


THE GAKDENER’S NEPHEW. 


265 


“Parbleu!” said Deroute, with a marvelous assurance, 
“and besides, they even speak of her at Paris.” 

“What worries me is to lose my place, a good place ” 

“Pooh! a place between four walls.” 

“I do not say nay. But one hundred livres of wages 
with food and lodging. One earns one’s dowry in three or 
four years.” 

“That is true; but, bah! Uncle Jerome will earn it for 
you.” 

“In fact, I am his heir. So my Uncle Jerome, old though 
he is, is going to become a monk?” 

“It is necessary. He takes the frock to-morrow. See if 
your heart tells you to do likewise.” 

“My heart has never spoken to me of the convent; it 
hears only Catherine. What is vexatious is that I have 
scarcely a crown left; it is little for such a long road.” 

“Oh! do not disturb yourself, Uncle Jerome has pro- 
vided for that. ’ ’ 

“How is that?” 

“If it happens,” he has said to me, “that Ambrose does 
not like the convent ” 

Ambrose shook his head. 

“ you will hand him,” continued Deroute, “these • 

twenty crowns and four louis.” 

As he said this. Deroute displayed upon a table the white 
and yellow pieces. The eyes of Ambrose sparkled at this 
sight. 

“All this for me?” said he, with his hand upon the 
money. 

“All this, and moreover, this double louis for Catherine. ” 

Ambrose took the whole, opened his valise, and placed 
the money at the bottom. 

“Friend Blondinet,” said he, “I will leave to-morrow by 
the coach, ’ ’ 

“And you will do well; the convent will lose a good 
gardener by it, but it will be the fault of the king.” 

“Is it well understood?” continued Deroute, while Am- 
brose was stuffing his crowns and louis between his shirts 
and stockings in the valise. 

“Certainly !” 

“Then give me Madame Patu’s letter.” 

“Mamma’s letter?” 

“Yes.” 

“What do you want with the letter?” 

“It will serve me as a proof with Jerome; he must know 
that I have fulfilled my commission.” 


266 


A PONIARD THRUST. 


“That is true,” said Ambrose, and he gave Deroute the 
letter. 

The king’s edict, Catherine, the gold louis danced all 
night in Ambrose’s dreams. At daybreak Deroute awoke 
him. They embraced like old friends, and one took his 
way to the Rue du Cherche-Midi, while the other went in 
the direction of Beaugency. The attendant of the convent 
called Father Jerome as soon as Deroute had stated the 
motive of his visit. 

“What do you want with me?” asked the gardener, on 
entering the parlor. 

“My uncle, it is your nephew who comes to be a gar- 
dener,” replied Derdute, with a simple air. 


CHAPTER XL. 

A PONIARD THRUST. 

Jer®me embraced his nephew, in whom he recognized at 
once a family air. Deroute did not wink, and the gardener 
forthwith installed him in his lodging. From the first day, 
Deroute set out to gain the confidence of Castor and Pollux ; 
he succeeded therein by an abundant distribution of 
dainties, with which he had provided himself. Jerome, 
who noticed it, was astonished at such a great friendship 
for animals. 

While caressing the dogs, who gamboled around him, 
Deroute took possession of his new domain ; he went over 
the entire place in order to familiarize himself with its 
topography. Father Jerome accompanied him in his visit, 
and mixed dissertations upon the art of gardening with 
commentaries upon the Patus of Beaugency. Deroute had 
a reply for everything, and made with an imperturbable 
tranquillity the biography of thirty persons whom he did 
not know, aiding himself, without seeming to do so, with 
the recollections of Jerome. Toward evening Deroute 
knew the garden of the convent as well as if he had in- 
habited it all his life. Just as they were about to return, 
Jerome nudged him with his elbow. 

“Hey! my nephew,” he said to him, “look at the end of 
that hedge, and you will see some one who always has 
something shining to leave between my fingers.” 

“Stay, I wish to see her closer,” replied Deroute, and he 
walked toward her. 


A PONIARD THRUST. 


267 


His uncle followed him. 

The piercing eye of Deroute had at once recognized 
Claudine, and he was not vexed to place himself in com- 
munication with her. 

“My good lady,” said Jerome, “this is my nephew, an 
honest fellow, who has had the desire of being presented 
to a person so full of virtues. If he can serve you in any 
way use him freely.” 

In spite of the peril of the situation, Claudine bit her 
lip to keep from laughing at the sight of the impassible 
figure of the sergeant, who was twisting his hat with one 
hand and scratching his ear with the other. 

“I believe that one can count upon you,” said she, “and 
I ask you to take this crown in order to drink to my 
health.” 

To take the crown it was necessary to approach Claudine ; 
Deroute did so after J erome had shoved him forward ; but, 
as he bent over, he said, very low and very quickly : 

“Hold yourself ready ; it is necessary to make haste.” 

Claudine thanked him with a look and moved rapidly 
away. She found Suzanne waiting for her at the bench in a 
walk. 

“I have seen Deroute,” Claudine said to her, in a joyous 
voice. 

“And I Monsieur de Charny,” replied Suzanne, drawing 
Claudine under the thick shade of the chestnut trees. 

“You have seen Monsieur de Charny?” repeated Claudine, 
all of whose gayety disappeared. 

“If Belle Bose has not delivered me before three days, I 
am lost,” continued Suzanne. “Monsieur de Lou vois is 
tired of my resistance. I must become a nun or get mar- 
ried in three days.” 

“No, no,” exclaimed Claudine, who wept as she em- 
braced Suzanne. 

The convent bell rang the Angelus, and the two friends 
separated. An hour after this conversation Cornelius, who 
l)rowied unceasingly around the convent, ran against a 
gentleman who was entering the Rue Vangirard by the 
Rue Cassette. The shock caused the hats of the two young 
people to fall. 

“Eh ! m or bleu ! the man with the cloak !” exclaimed one 
of the two, “you go very quickly ! suffer me to stop you,” 
and he placed his hand upon the guard of his sworci. 

Bufc the blade, half withdrawn, returned to the scabbard, 
and the gentleman extended his hand to Cornelius with a 
burst of laughter. 


‘268 


A PONURB THRUST. 


“Upon my word, I was going to commit a folly. But, 
monsieur, one should forewarn people when one goes from 
Dover to Paris.” 

“My first visit would have been for you if my presence 
here was not a secret,” replied Cornelius, taking the hand 
of the count. 

“Par bleu! I do not know whether I ought to rejoice at 
this meeting,” said Monsieur de Pomereux, “otherwise I 
should have had the pleasure of a duel with a passer-by, if 
this passer-by had been some one other than you!” 

“Decidedly,” replied Cornelius, “inaction is contrary to 
your disposition ; the first time that I saw you, you were 
about to get killed ; the second, you absolutely wish to kill 
some one. It is a malady. ’ ’ 

“You jest, I believe! I should like to see you in my fix. 
The most abominable adventure has happened to me. I 
am furious over it. Still, if there was some one on whom 
to vent my anger ” 

“I am truly vexed not to be able to be that some one; 
but, upon my honor, if you were to kill me, it would 
singularly disturb my plans.” 

“Stay,” continued the count, without paying any atten- 
tion to Cornelius’ reasoning, “I make you the judge of it; 
there is a lady of the name of d’Albergotti ” 

“You have related me that history, ” interrupted Cor- 
nelius. 

“To you? it is, my faith,' true! I relate it to everybody, 
so I no longer know who knows it and who does not. 
Well, my dear Irishman, would you believe that she still 
continues to obstinately refuse me.” 

“In truth?” 

“She has a heart of stone! I am in despair, not so much 
for myself as for her ; for, you know, a woman whom one 
loses is happiness gained.” 

“So that it is the love^of one’s neighbor which inspires 
you to do what you do.” 

“I believe that the love of one’s neighbor cuts some 
figure in it ; but that is a point which I seek to hide from 
myself. A good gentleman who loves without being loved 
— it is humiliating.” 

“Parbleu !” 

“However, on leaving the parlor, I did not conceal any 
of the dangers that she ran. She smiled at me and an- 
swered: ‘Let the will of God be done!’ ” 

“Ah! yes,” said Cornelius, “the famous dangers of 
which you spoke to us in England — a convent and a vail.” 


A PONIARD THRUST. 


269 


“Stay, it is a narrative which I wish to tell you. Since 
I cannot kill any one let us go and sup somewhere.” 

Cornelius readily consented. Monsieur de Pomereux, 
who was posted about all the cabarets of Paris, gained the 
corner of the Rue du Dragon, where there was at this 
epoch a renowned eating-house keeper, knocked at the 
door, entered and had a table set in a room. 

“Monsieur landlord,” he said to him, when the cover 
was laid, “go and get me some of your best wine, and pray 
God that I find it good, for in my present humor, if it is 
not passable, I shall set fire to the house and massacre you 
all.” 

Having spoken thus. Monsieur de Pomereux drew his 
sword and placed it on the table. The tavern-keeper de- 
camped in great haste and came back five minutes, later, 
followed by two valets, each of whom carried ten bottles. 
The proprietor took one of them and offered it to the 
count, keeping one eye on the bottle and the other upon 
the sword. Monsieur de Pomereux uncorked it and drank 
the whole at a draught. There was a moment’s silence, 
during which the proprietor and servants looked stealthily 
at the door. 

“It is almost good, go, I pardon you,” said the count. 

The servants disappeared, and the two guests sat down 
facing each other. Cornelius had less appetite than curi- 
osity ; nevertheless, as the hour was advanced, the supper 
good, and as he was besides a very accommodating man in 
all things, he bravely assisted his companion. 

“At what point was I in the story?” said Monsieur de 
Pomereux, after having torn in pieces a hare and two 
partridges. 

“You were speaking of the perils incurred by your un- 
natural sweetheart.” 

“Ah ! yes. See how my anger gets the better of me; I 
will have to kill a servant-boy. I am going to call the 
landlord to tell him to bring me one. Hello!” 

“Stop, you can kill him as you go out.” 

“Well, you will remind me of it.” 

“It is agreed.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux threw an empty bottle through 
the window, broke the* neck of a full bottle, and con- 
tinued : ■ — 

“Madame d’Albergotti imagined at first that it was only 
a question of a nun’s vail or that of a bride. I have had to 
confess the entire truth to her ; she is in danger of Fort 
I’Eveque or Vincennes.” 


‘270 


A PONIAliD THKUST. 


“Diable! but they honor her much ! Behold her treated 
like a criminal of state!” 

“It comes from the fact that, thanks to Monsieur de 
Charny, my gentle cousin, Monsieur de Louvois, has 
caught wind of the maneuvers of Belle-Eose. ’ ’ 

“Indeed!” 

“Now the minister is a very prudent minister, who im- 
agines that one is more safe in a prison than a cloister, in 
a dungeon than in a cell. ’ ’ 

“That is also the opinion of jailers.” 

“Ah! if Madame d’Albergotti consented to pronounce 
her vows, he would leave her at ease in the pious house of 
the Benedictine nuns, quite sure that she would no longer 
leave it. But she is a frail creature who is wonderfully 
resolute. She would let herself be killed before articu- 
lating the sacramental ‘yes,’ ” 

“It is obstinacy. ” 

“Yes, but in the language of sentiment it is called con- 
stancy. Do you believe that in order to draw her from 
this gulf, I have proposed to her to marry her and to after- 
ward take her where she prefers to go, to some chateau of 
mine, if one is left me, or to one of my estates, promising 
her on my faith as a gentleman, to never return there 
without her permission? But no, she would not!” 

“She has refused you?” 

“Without hesitation. Monsieur de Louvois will laugh at 
me.” 

“Faith, my dear count, it is necessary to place thj^ re- 
fusal to the account of feminine caprices. A woman ac- 
cepts and refuses just as it rains and the wind blows — 
without one’s knowing why.” 

“The most curious fact is that, not being able to be 
Madame d’Albergotti’s husband, I am to become her 
tyrant. ” 

“You!” 

“It is an idea of Monsieur de Louvois. In three days I 
will place myself at the head of an escort which will take 
her I know not where, and at which point I am to assume 
charge of her. My cousin wishes to make of me a species 
of Bluebeard. ‘Monsieur le comte,’ he has said to me, ‘take 
care that the lady is not carried away from you after 
having played with you. Kepulsed and deceived — it would 
be too much for your renown. ’ This has piqued me, and 
upon my honor, I am going to become pitiless.” 

The supper was about over; Monsieur de Pomereux 
arose, brought his fist heavily down upon the table, 


A PONIARD THRUST. 


271 


causing the glass and china to rattle in a frightful fashion, 
after which he descended. When they were in the street, 
each one went his way, one toward Monsieur de Louvois’ 
hotel, the other toward Monsieur Meriset’s inn ; but when 
about to separate. Monsieur de Pomereux, taking from his 
finger a ring, handed it to Cornelius. 

“Take this, my Irish friend,” he said to him ; “I do not 
know what enterprise you are pursuing, but, in case of 
misadventure, strike boldly at the Hotel de Pomereux, Rue 
du Roi-de-Sicile ; this ring will open all its doors to you, 
and you will be in safety. ’ ’ 

Cornelius slipped the ring in his pocket, and the two 
guests having pressed each other’s hand, separated. The 
young Irishman found Belle-Rose in conference with Grip- 
pard. The honest corporal entertained the idea that the 
expedition would be perilous. Bouletord was alwaj^s around 
the convent with seven or eight rascals armed to the teeth. 

. There was in a stable in the Rue St. Maur half a dozen 
horses all saddled and bridled in case of alarm, and the 
watch was kept up day and night. 

“If it was only a question of my skin, it would be noth- 
ing, ” said the soldier, by w^ay of peroration, “but I am 
afraid of the galleys. ’ ’ 

“Bah!” said Cornelius, Tvho just then came in, “a brave 
man is always master of his own life.” 

This argument appeared final to Grippard, who said 
nothing more. 

“Come,” said Belle-Rose, “we will act soon.” 

“We will act to-morrow,” said the Irishman. 

And he related what he had learned from Monsieur de 
Pomereux. Belle-Rose bounded like a lion. 

“If I fail,” said he, “as true as there is a God I shall go 
to Monsieur de Louvois and bury this poniard in his 
heart.'” 

And he turned toward heaven the blade of a poniard 
which he carried under his coat. It was decided that the 
abduction should take pace the next evening. Cornelius 
and Belle-Rose had agreed with Deroute upon a signal 
which would inform him of the day fixed on for the escape ; 
this signal was to come from the mansard formerly hired 
by the sergeant, and upon which he was to throw his eyes 
from time to time. Belle-Rose had provided himself with 
a rope-ladder. While they were arranging plans. Monsieur 
Meriset entered the apartment, cap in hand. He was some- 
what pale, and he wore an air of mystery. 

“Pardon, messieurs, if I disturb you,” said he, “but I 


272 


A PONIARD THRUST. 


would fail in all that which I owe my lodgers if I did not 
warn them of what is taking place.” 

“What is taking place, then, m3^ worthy Monsieur Meri- 
sel?” said Belle-Hose. 

“This is it: Some persons whose appearance I have 
thought suspicious are prowling around my house. I am 
certain that they are not watching me ; from which I have 
concluded ” 

“That not prowling for you, they are prowling for us,” 
interrupted Cornelius. 

Monsieur Meriset bowed in sign of assent. 

“It is a logical reasoning,” continued Belle-Rose, “and 
which is not devoid of truth.” 

“That is why I have mounted to your room,” said the 
proprietor. “It is not very far from the Rue du Pot-de Per 
St. Sulpice to the Bastile ; therefore be on your guard ’ ’ 

“We are on our guard, my worthy host, and it is w:ith 
the intention of avoiding a new disturbance with the men 
of the king that I ask you to render me a service.” 

“Speak, monsieur,” said Monsieur Meriset, bowing low. 

“Have you still that dear nephew who is your heir?” 
said Belle-Rose. 

“I have. ” 

“He is a boy who knows something of horses. I recollect 
the lively fashion in which he has galloped from Paris to 
Bethune. ” 

“It does not become me to praise my nephew, but it is 
certain that no one purchases a horse in the quarter with- 
out consulting him.” 

“Ask him, then, to procure me to-morrow four horses 
of good blood, having nerve and wind. Grippard here will 
take them to the place where they will be wanted. As to 
the price, I shall not stand upon it, and your nephew* shall 
have ten louis for his trouble.” 

Monsieur Meriset promised and withdrew. Grii:)pard 
slipped away to rejoin Bouletord ; Cornelius and Belle- Rose 
leaped over the garden walls and gained the lodging va- 
cated by the sergeant. On turning the corner of the Rue 
du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice, they perceived in the corner of 
a porte cochere two disagreeable looking fellows, who im- 
mediately came forth. But at sight of the swords which 
shone in the moonlight, the rascals made off. 

“Monsieur Meriset was not deceived,” said Belle-Rose. 

Five minutes after three lights forming the points of a 
brilliant triangle shone at the window of the garret. 


A PONIARD THRUST. 


273 


Deroute, who was making his round in the convent gar- 
dens, stopped short. 

“Come! it is for to-morrow,” said he, and he went away 
philosophically to rejoin Jerome Patu. 

The next day Cornelius went to the convent ; on this day 
he was followed by a lackey carrying two beautiful silver 
chandeliers for the altar of St. Claire, for whom Mother 
Evangelique had a special devotion. The present was wel- 
come, and Cornelius had time to converse with Claudine 
in the parlor. Claudine, quickly informed as to the new 
circumstances, charged herself with making them known 
to Suzanne and promised to follow blindly the instructions 
of Deroute. She profited by the novelty of the chandeliers 
to obtain from the superior the i^ermission to traverse the 
gardens in the moonlight, and so arranged it as to have a 
long conference with Suzanne. Toward noon Claudine met 
Deroute, who was walking along with a pruning-bill in 
his hand, mutilating the apricot trees. No one was any- 
w’here near them. 

“Be behind the willows at dusk, at the place where the 
wall makes a turn.” 

“We will be there,” said Claudine. 

At nightfall Claudine and Suzanne threw themselves • 
upon their knees by an instinctive movement and raised 
their hands to God. It was the decisive hour, and they 
held themselves in readiness. The chapel bell rang, the 
steps of the nuns going to the evening devotions w^ere 
heard, and soon the songs resounded. Great white clouds 
were extended like a scarf of gauze over the horizon, where 
fioated the vailed moon. The windows of the chapel spark- 
led in the night, Suzanne feigned a headache to keep from 
going to the chapel, Claudine having recommended her to 
wait for her in her cell. Suzanne half opened her door and 
counted the minutes. At seven o’clock Claudine came out; 
the in^ayers filled with their pious murmurs the long cor- 
ridors of the convent; the attendant, who knew the order 
of the superior, let the young boarder pass, but Claudine 
had not made three steps when she returned. 

“I have forgotten my cloak and am going to look for it; 
will you, my sister, leave the door open?” said she. 

And like a bird she rushed down the somber hall. 

Her feet did not touch the fioor, and nevertheless Su- 
zanne heard her and leaned her head out of her cell. 

“Come!” said Claudine, and both descended the stair- 
way. 

In passing before the narrow room where the attendant 


274 


BY THE AID OF FIRE. 


was, Claudine leaned toward her, in that way masking the 
door. 

“Thanks, my good sister,” said she. 

Snzanne slipped out, and Claudine followed her. They 
plunged into the silent depths of the park, and embraced 
as soon as they were sheltered by the trees. 

“Some minutes more, and we are free,” said Claudine. 

They ran to the angle of the wall and found Deroute 
waiting very impatiently. 

“I have given the signal twice, and no one has answered 
me,” said he. “Wait for me here.” 

Suzanne shivered and felt Claudine’s hand tremble in 
hers. Deroute walked along the walls, and assisting him- 
self by some branches, climbed like a cat to the top. The 
night was black, great clouds having suddenly vailed the 
moon. He listened, and it seemed to him that whispering 
was going on some few steps from him. Deroute got astride 
of the wall and descended by planting the blade of his 
knife between the stones. When he had reached the 
ground, he went straight in the direction from which the 
whispering had come, hut all at once two men pounced 
upon him. 

“Go to the devil !” cried one of them, who was Grippard, 
while Bouletord struck him with a poniard. 

The voice saved Deroute ; he received the blow in his 
clothing as he leaped to one side like a squirrel. Bouletord 
threw himself upon him, but the sergeant gained the wall 
and disappeared in the shadows. At the end of a hundred 
steps he climbed a tree and jumped from it into the con- 
vent garden. 

“That is a blow. Monsieur Bouletord,” said he, as he 
rose, “which I shall endeavor to pay you back.” 


CHAPTER XLI. 

BY THE AID OF FIRE. 

Suzanne and Claudine had heard Grippard ’s cry; this 
cry carried away all their hope as a gust of wind carries 
away a spark; they pressed each other close, trembling 
for Jacques and Cornelius. Just then they heard Derouto 
as he fell upon the turf. In two bounds he was before 
them. 


BY THE AID OF FIKE. 


275 


“It is a spoiled affair,” he said to them; “return 
quickly.” 

“Jacques? Cornelius?” said at the same time Suzanne 
and Claudine. 

“They are saved, think of yourselves.” 

Deroute pulled forward the two women ; the silence was 
profound, hut the dogs growled and rattled their chains. 
On quitting the two women Deroute ran to the dogs. 
Claudine knocked at the door, the attendant opened, and 
the same ruse which had protected Suzanne in going out 
protected her return. A quarter of an hour had sufficed to 
ruin their hopes; when Suzanne and Claudine knelt down 
before the image of Christ, the sonorous barkine: of Castor 
and Pollux resounded in the park. While Deroute hastened 
to make disappear every trace of escape and to awaken 
Father Jerome to efface all suspicion of complicity in case 
of accident, Bouletord and Grix)pard were searching along 
the wall, the one swearing, the other reasoning. 

“Sangdieu ! he must be a sorcerer!” exclaimed Boule- 
tord, and he 'went along the wall, looking everywhere. At 
the end of fifty steps, his foot struck a dead body. 

“Here he is!” exclaimed the quartermaster, and he 
leaned over. 

Grippard shivered, but Bouletord rose like a tiger. 

“Mordieu! it is one of my own men whom they have 
killed,” said he; “he has been struck in the breast.” 

Bouletord took a whistle and blew it. At this signal, sev- 
eral archers posted here and there ran up. Around the 
dead body the soil was pressed By numerous steps, but the 
murderers had left no other trace of their passage. One of 
the archers declared, however, that two men enveloped 
in cloaks had approached the wall a quarter of an 
hour before Grippard ’s cry; he had asked them for the 
word of order ; the two men had given it to him, and he 
had let them pass, taking them for agents of Bouletord. 

“The word of order? they have given it to you?” ex- 
claimed Bouletord. 

“Par bleu! they must have stolen it,” replied Grippard. 

The silence around them was profound ; it was necessary 
to renounce any enterprise for the night. Bouletord dis- 
tributed his men around the convent, and stretched him- 
self out under a tree with Grippard, his confidant. 

This is what had taken place: The same morning of the 
day fixed for the escape, Bouletord, walking in the direc- 
tion of the Hue Vangira d, had met Monsieur Meriset’s 
nephew leading four horses by their bridles. This nephew^ 


276 


BY THE AID OF FIKE. 


was a jovial lad who frequented cabarets and gaming- 
houses, where he had formed all sorts of bad acquaintances, 
among which was that of Bonietord. It was a side of his 
life which he did not reveal to his uncle, who regarded 
him as a little saint. 

“Hey! Christopher!” said Bouletord, “those are fine 
animals you have there ; they ought to bring you in two 
hundred pistoles.” 

“That would be a bad bargain. They cost me four thou- 
sand livres!” replied the nephew, coming to a halt. 

“Your dear uncle, then, has a desire to stock his 
stables!” said the quartermaster, caressing the neck of 
one of the horses. 

“Him ! he loves his louis too well to risk a single one of 
them.” 

“It is, then, for you!” 

“Nothing in the hands, nothing in the pockets,” said 
Christopher, striking his gusset. “Ah! yes! there will be 
this evening ten or twenty pistoles which the gentleman 
will give me for my trouble. ” 

“What gentleman?” 

“The gentleman at Papa Meriset’s, a proud sqldier who 
talks like a duke and pays like a king.” 

Bouletord pricked up his ears. 

“Ah! ah!” said he, “and he has need of four horses, 
your gentleman?” 

“I have an idea that they will see some country before 
to-morrow’s sun. I have been recommended to choose the 
most active and vigorous beasts.” 

Bouletord had not forgotten that Belle-Rose had been 
arrested at Monsieur Meriset’s. 

“It is clear,” he thought; “his temerity is cunning; who 
the devil would have thought the swallow would have re- 
turned to the nest?” 

Bouletord, wishing to clear up his first suspicions, pro- 
posed to Christopher to drink a bottle or two at the caba- 
ret on the corner. They drank, and Bouletord questioned 
Christopher, In the midst of his thoughtlessness, Christo- 
pher was an honest and worthy fellow. Seeing himself 
questioned, he understood at once that he had already said 
too much; he was silent, emptied his glass, remounted his 
horse and rode away. But Bouletord divined the unknown 
from the known. If horses were purchased, it was for 
fiyingr^and if they wished to fiy, it was because they 
cherished the hope of carrying off the captive. Boule- 


BY THE AID OF FIBE. 277 

tord rubbed his hands and went to relate everything to 
Grippard. 

“I have them,” said he, in conclusion. 

That was also Grippard ’s ppinion, and he affected a 
great joy. 

“Good!” said he to Bouletord, “I am not pleased with 
my pistols, and as I intend not to miss the stroke this 
evening, I shall run to the company’s locksmith.” 

But instead of running to the locksmith, he took bis 
way to the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice; Cornelius and 
Belle-Rose were not there; Grippard ran to Deroute’s 
observatory ; the two friends had left it in the morning. 
Grippard snatched out a handful of hair; but this panto- 
mime not aiding him to discover either the captain or the 
Irishman, he ran like a stag and took the road to the 
hostelry of the Roi David. He pushed open the door and 
found Cornelius. 

“At last!” said Grippard. 

“Be silent,” replied Cornelius; “I am expecting Chris- 
topher and his horses.” 

“That is what I wish to talk to you about.” 

Grippard drew Cornelius into one corner and related to 
him all that he knew of Bouletord ’s plans. 

“There will be a dozen armed men around the gardens,” 
said he; “at the least alarm, they have orders to fire.” 

“Well,” said Belle-Rose, who had just come up, “lam 
going to recruit five or six determined rascals, and it will 
be a battle.” 

“Bless me !” replied Grippard, “dresses are not cuirasses ; 
if the women receive the balls, that will be your affair.” 

Belle-Rose hit his fists. 

“Come,” said he, “we shall act according to circum- 
stances. It is too late to warn Deroute. ” 

Night came, oats were placed under the noses of the 
horses, and they quitted the hostelry of the Roi David. As 
Grippard had told them, there were archers all around the 
convent. Belle-Rose quivered with impatience. 

“At least,” said he, “let us warn Deroute.” 

They advanced and gave the word, they were permitted 
to pass and gained the wall. At the end of thirty steps, 
believing themselves alone, they stopped; Belle-Rose drew 
a silk ladder from his pocket; but, just as he was about to 
throw it over the wall, a man concealed in a recess of the 
wall, threw himself upon him. Belle-Rose seized his arm 
with one hand, and with the other planted his poniard 
in the man’s breast. The man fell without uttering a 


278 


BY THE AH) OF FIRE. 


single cry. The entire blade had disappeared in the 
wound. At the same moment they heard Grippard’s im- 
precation, and Deroute’s rush to the wall. Belle-Rose and 
Cornelius threw themselves into the somber corner from 
which the man had launched himself and waited, i^istols 
in hand. Deroute mounted a tree ten steps away from 
them and crossed the wall at a bound. Belle-Rose climbed 
like the sergeant and was followed by Cornelius. At the 
end of a moment Bouletord and Grippard came up. From 
the midst of the branches where they were concealed they 
heard Bouletord ’s exclamation on seeing the dead body. 
Tranquil as Deroute, they kept quiet; toward midnight 
the rain began to fall ; the night was black, the nearest 
sentinel was promenading twenty steps away. Belle-Rose 
and Cornelius descended from the tree and walked softly 
over the rain-soaked ground 

“Who goes there?” some one cried, ten steps away from 
them. 

This time Belle-Rose and Cornelius fled without reply- 
ing. 

vive!'"* repeated the voice, and at the same moment 
a shot was fired. 

Belle-Rose and Cornelius kept running. 

“Brother, are you hit?” said Cornelius. 

“I have the ball in my cloak,” replied Belle-Rose. 

Bouletord ’s troop was behind them; but the shadows 
were so thick that they soon reached the Rue de Sevres 
without being disturbed. 

“Where are you taking me?” Belte-Rose asked Cornelius. 

“Come on,” said the Irishman, who had his idea. 

At the end of a quarter of an hour they arrived at the 
Rue du Roi-de-Sicile. Cornelius struck at the hotel of the 
Comte de Pomereux. The intendant was called, and at 
sight of his master’s ring, he introduced the two strangers 
into a comfortable apartment, where, by his order, a sup- 
per was served. 

“Where the devil are we?” said Belle-Rose. 

“At the home of our enemy, Monsieur de Pomereux, 
and we are better off here than at our friend Monsieur 
Meriset’s, ” replied the Irishman. 

This night the house in the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sul- 
pice was visited from top to bottom by Monsieur Charny. 

“The birds have come,” said he to Bouletord, “but they 
have flown.” 

The next day Deroute might have been seen prowling 
around the orchard of the convent, pruning-bill in hand; 


BY THE AID OF FIRE. 


279 


his eyes turned incessantly toward the door through which 
Claudine was accustomed to descend to the garden. De- 
route was cutting the branches around him. 

“Eh! my nephew, what are you doing there?” exclamed 
the old Jerome; “you are massacring that tree.” 

“I am killing it,” coldly replied the nephew; “this tree 
absorbed the nourishment of its neighbors. Do you not 
see that if these apricot trees have no fruit, it is the fault 
of this plum tree?” 

The assurance of Deroute stupefied Jerome, who bowed 
before the science of his nephew. Toward noon Claudine 
appeared Deroute’s arm was tired of cutting, Claudine 
was very pale. She threw her eyes around her. Jerome 
was gardening in one corner; she approached Deroute. 

“Extend your apron as if for cherries, and we will talk, ” 
he said to her. 

“Did you hear that shot?” said Claudine. 

“It gave me a chill, mam’zelle.” 

“Do you think that one of them has been wounded?” 

“No^Iwas prowling under the wall. Bouletord has 
sworn fearfully, and that has made me understand that he 
has failed to hit anything.” 

“What a terrible night, my God! But, alas! everything 
is not finished.” 

“What is the matter now?” 

“Suzanne is to be taken to-night I know not where ; to 
the Bastile, perhaps.” 

“To-night?” 

“Mother Evangelique told her so just now. Monsieur de 
Louvois has been informed of the adventures of this night, 
and though they have failed, he does not wish them to be 
renewed. It is impossible to now warn Cornelius or Belle- 
Rose. What must we do, my God?” 

“I will warn them myself,” said Deroute, whose excel- 
lent physiognomy took on a ferocious expression. “Go 
now, mam’zelle, and in case of alarm, hold yourself 
ready.” 

Claudine left with a lighter heart. Deroute came down 
from the tree, ran to the lodge, and returned with a large, 
red handkerchief, which he attached to the highest branch 
of the cherry tree. 

“What are you doing there?” sked Father Jerome. 

“Faith,” said he, “the cat-birds have eaten half the 
cherries; it is for saving the rest.” 

“Hold! your idea is good, my nephew.” 

“Yes, I sometimes have that kind.” 


2S0 


BY THE AID OF FIKE. 


Belle-Rose and Cornelius had quitted at an early hour 
the Hotel de Pomereux and had disguised themselves in 
such a manner that Bouletord himself would not have 
recognized them. Belle-Rose mounted to the garret, after 
having observed the surroundings of the place. Cornelius 
had gone to the Roi David to wait for Grippard. As soon 
as Belle-Rose had seen the red handkerchief floating from 
the top of the cherry tree, he trembled and descended the 
stair- way four steps at a time. In three bounds he reached 
the Rue des Franco-Bourgeois-St. Michel. 

“Deroute is at work,” said he to Cornelius and Grip- 
pard; “I have seen the signal.” 

“The red handkerchief?” exclaimed Cornelius, quickly. 

“Yes.” 

“Deroute is a firm and prudent fellow ; the peril must 
be imminent.” 

“He will find us ready.” 

“You have heard, Grippard, it is for this evening,” said 
Cornelius. 

Christopher, whom the alarm of the preceding night had 
rendered more circumspect by teaching him the danger of 
unbosoming himself to the police, promised to have the 
horses saddled and bridled at dusk and at a place wdiich 
they designated near the convent. Meanwhile Deroute 
Slipped in his pockets two pistols, of which he was as sure 
as of himself, and concealed under his coat a poniard, 
which he had more than once had occasion to handle. 

“The affair must come to a finish, ” he said to himself 
“the veritable Ambrose Patu may return at any time.” 

The evening came. Deroute left his lodge and traversed 
the garden. He had remarked, on the day of his entrance 
at the convent, a collection of sheds in which were heaped ; 
all sorts of old furniture along with straw and hay for 
feeding three or four cows which the nuns kept. These 
sheds were fifty feet away from the main building. De- 
route went straight to them, and crouched down in a 
corner. He drew from his pocket a tinder-box, lit a piece 
of touch-wood, slipped it under a pile of shavings and 
began to blow it with all his lungs ; two minutes after a 
bright flame shot up. Deroute overturned two or three 
heaps of straw and went out drawing the door after him. 
He was not at the end of the avenue when the smoke came 
out through all the cracks. When he turned around, he 
saw the flames devouring the roof. Deroute began to run 
as fast as he could toward the convent, crying : 

“Fire! fire!” 


BY THE AID OF FIRE. 


281 


Jerome, who was the first to hear him, lost his head and 
cried still louder without moving an inch. Mother Scholas- 
tique looked out at the window and exclaimed: 

“Great (toJ! the convent is burning. ’’ 

The nuns, who were going to vespers, heard the excla- 
mation of Mother Scholastique and wore seized with a 
frightful panic. Claudine, whose mind was occupied with 
Deroute’s words, at once divined his intention on seeing 
him run over the terrace with a frightened air. She rushed 
to Suzanne’s cell, took her by the hand, and togethei^they 
descended the stair- way. Mother Scholastique ran to the 
convent bell and rang it. The men of the quarter, wTio 
had already seen the flames above the walls, ran up at the 
sound of the tocsin. The doors of the convent were broken 
open, and the crowd rushed into the court. This was what 
Dcu'oute wished. As soon as he saw the people enter the 
gardens of the convent, he ran to where he had perceived 
Suzanne and Claudine. 

“Follow me!’’ he said to them. 

There were so many nuns among the crowd that no one 
thought to look at them ; they made thirty steps in the 
direction of the door; Belle-Rose and Cornelius had en- 
tered with the crowd ; they recognized Claudine and Su- 
zanne and joined them. Bouletord was there; a move- 
ment of the crowd caused the false gardener’s hat to fall. 

“Deroute!” cried Bouletord, who understood everything. 

He wished to rush forward, but a living rampart was 
interposed between them. Bouletord foamed with fury. 
Belle-Rose and Cornelius, throwing away their cloaks, 
raised the one Suzanne, the other Claudine, in their arms; 
the crowd, believing that it was a question of wounded 
nuns who were being transported far from the fire, gave 
way before them. 

Monsieur de Charny had entered wnth the rest ; it ’was 
the hour when he was accustomed to make his daily 
round. At Bouletord ’s cry he armed himself with a 
poniard and finding an egress through the crowd, threw 
himself upon Deroute, who preceded Belle-Rose. But the 
sergeant saw everything without having the air of paying 
attention to any tiling; just as Monsieur de Charny raised 
his hand he seized him by the throat and parried the blow 
with his other arm, with which he twisted the gentleman’s 
wrist. The pain caused Monsieur de Charny to let go of 
his poniard ; the sergeant’s fingers were pressed tightly 
around his throat ; his face became purple, his knees gave 
way, and he fell heavily. 


m 


THE BEGGAR. 


“Make room for the poor sisters,” repeated, tranquilly. 
Deroute, leaping over Monsieur de Charny’s body. 

They reached the door and crossed it; Grippard slipped 
away a moment. 

“Go!” said he, “I will not be long.” 

And he took his way toward the Rue St. Maur. The 
little troop gained the place where Christopher was guard- 
ing the horses. They mounted and rode away at a gallop. 
Gri]:pard arrived all out of breath a moment after, and, 
plying the spur, he quickly rejoined the fugitive^. The 
four horses champed their bits and made a thousand 
sparks burst under their feet. A great noise was suddenly 
heard behind them ; they turned their heads and saw an 
immense whirlwind of flame mount toward the sky, then 
fall. 

“The sheds have fallen in,” said Deroute; “I knew that 
the fire would make a bigger scare than it would do harm. ” 

“I owe you everything!” Belle-Rose said to him, looking 
at Suzanne, whose arms were wrapped around his neck. 

“It is well! it is well! Keep on galloping,” replied De- 
route. “Hey! Grippard, let us stay behind. I imagine that 
we are not through with Bouletord.” 


CHAPTER XLII. 

THE BEGGAR. 

Bouletord, left to his unaided efforts and hemmed in by 
the multitude, took more than a quarter of an hour to dis- 
engage himself. His men went and came without under- 
standing anything of what was taking place; they had 
seen so many persons leave that they no longer paid any 
attention to anything and waited for orders to act. Just 
as he had seen Monsieur de Charny disappear and Deroute 
leave, Bouletord had uttered a cry of rage and rushed 
toward the door of the convent ; a movement of the crowd 
had pushed him in the direction of Monsieur de Charny. 
Bouletord saw the favorite of the minister stretched out 
senseless and raised him; Monsieur de Charny opened 
his eyes, looked around him, understood everything that 
had taken place, and bounded to his feet. 

“Where are they?” asked Monsieur de Charny. 

Bouletord pointed to the door with a despairing gesture. 

“To the horses!” cried the gentleman. 


THE BEGGAR. 


When they succeeded in leaving the court Monsieur de 
Charny was white and Bouletord purple with fury. The 
one was mute and threatening; the other hurled forth a 
thousand imprecations. 

“To horse!” howled Bouletord to the first archers whom 
he met. 

All ran toward the Bue St. Maur, where the stable was. 
As they rushed forward, Bouletord at their head, Monsieur 
de Charny perceived Monsieur de Pomereux, who came 
galloping up to the scene of the fire. 

“What the devil is taking place here, ” the gentleman 
asked the favorite. 

“Nothing mucfii; your fiancee is being carried off.” 

“Madame d’Albergotti?” 

“Faith, yes. She is riding behind Belle-Rose. You have 
been tricked. Monsieur le Comte.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux had, as the reader has seen, a 
good share of vanity ; the thought that he had been placed 
in a ridiculous position caused him to blush. 

“Ah! they have gone!” said he. 

“The poor widow has set fire to the convent to light up 
her second wedding,” said Monsieur de Charny, laughing. 

Monsieur de Pomeieux thought of the courtiers who 
were going to laugh at his adventure, and, if he was not 
a man to fear a cannon-ball, he w'as horribly afraid of 
ridicule. 

“What road have they taken, do you know?” he said 
cutting his horse’s flanks with his whip. 

“That will be easy to find out,” replied Monsieur de 
Charny, delighted to see Monsieur de Pomereux wrought 
up to the point to which he wished to bring him. 

Some of the crowd being questioned, answered that they 
had seen a troop of four cavaliers galloping in the direc- 
tion of the quays. Upon a sign from Monsieur de Pomer- 
eux, one of the lackeys offered his horse to Monsieur de 
Charny, and they set out in pursuit of the fugitives. But 
it was necessary to stop at every street corner to question 
the passers, and this took up a considerable time. 
Meanwhile Bouletord and his comrades, having reached 
the stable in the Rue St. Maur, prepared to mount their 
horses ; but as they set feet in the stirrups, all fell upon 
the straw, drawing the saddles with them. The girths 
were cut. Bouletord swore like a pagan. Before other 
girths were found and adjusted, ten minutes had been 
consumed. ' Finally they started, but at the first effort the 
bridles broke near the curbs, and there was another halt. 


284 


THE BEGGAE. 


The bridles had been tampered with the same as the 
girths. These two accidents, succeeding each other so 
closely, awoke Bouletord’s suspicions; while one of his 
men was entering the shop of a harness maker he looked 
around him. 

“Where is Grippard?” he exclaimed. 

“He is not with us,” answered one of the archers. 

“Has any one seen him?” 

“I have!” said another archer; “I was on guard at the 
stable when he entered it almost an hour ago.” 

“Double traitor!” howled Bouletord; “if I do not cut his 
heart out of him, may I be damned.” 

The bridles fixed the troop moved off. ' Belle-Rose and 
Cornelius had taken their course through the Rue du 
Four ; at the carrefour of Buci, they found a soldier of the 
watch who wished to oppose their passage. Belle-Rose’s 
horse struck him in the breast, and the soldier rolled over 
on the ground. They threw themselves into the Rue 
Dauphine, which was crossed in an instant. At the en- 
trance of the Pont Neuf they saw a squad of police. De- 
roufce perceived them first. He set spurs to his horse and 
threw himself in front, followed by Grippard. 

“Run to them,” said Deroute, “and cry with all your 
might, ‘Service of the king!’ ” 

“Why?” said Grippard. 

“Go and cry first, mordieu!” 

Grippard ran to the troop and cried, in his loudest voice: 

“Service of the king!” 

The troop opened, and the fugitives passed like a 
thunderbolt. 

After the Pont Neuf they took the quays and gained the 
Hotel de Ville. The little troop took the St. Denis road. 
The plan of the fugitives was very simple; they counted, 
at the end of a dozen leagues, to gain a farm in the 
country, to pass the night there, and to return the next 
day to Paris, where no one would think to look for them ; 
then, at the first good opportunity, they would join Mon- 
sieur de Luxembourg and place themselves under his im- 
mediate protection. The road which they followed led to 
Pontoise. The horses w^ere vigorous, the night limpid, the 
sky luminous. They pushed on as far as Franconville. 

At Franconville, Deroute knockedLat the door of an inn 
and asked for a sack of oats, which he paid for without 
haggling. They made a halt under the trees, at thirty 
steps from the road, and the provender was placed under 
the noses of the horses, who immediately went to eating 


THE BEGGAR. 


285 


it. While Belle-Rose and Cornelius were flying, Bouletord 
was in hot pursuit of them ; Monsieur de Poinereux and 
Monsieur de Charny had preceded him, accompanied by 
four or five of the count’s servants. At Franconville Mon- 
sieur de Pomereux and his lackeys, better mounted than 
Bouletord, left the police behind. The young count and 
his followers had horses of English stock accustomed to 
hunts. Monsieur de Pomereux and Monsieur de Charny 
rode in front, the lackeys followed at twenty steps, then 
came the archers. At the end of half an hour the distance 
which separated them had increased, and the two troops 
lost sight of each other. Bouletord ’s spurs were red with 
blood. Meanwhile Belle-Rose and Cornelius kept their 
steeds at a rapid pace without being pressed. 

“We must spare them,” said Deroute; “when we have 
passed the Pontoise, we will take across the country and 
tranquilly retrace our steps in order to throw the police 
olf the scent. ” 

As their little troop reached Pierrelaye, Grippard and 
Deroute hoard a neigh some distance behind them. The 
mare which Belle-Rose was riding answered it by another 
neigh. Deroute jumped in his saddle. 

“We are being followed!” sAid he, quite low. 

“I believe it, ” replied Grippard. 

Deroute reached Belle-Rose in two bounds. But before 
he had opened his mouth, he understood by the increased 
speed of the cavalcade that the horses had felt the spur. 
()n hearing his horse neigh. Monsieur de Pomereux pricked 
up his ears. 

“There are cavaliers before us, ” said he, and leaning 
over his stallion’s mane, he hastened rapidly on. 

Belle-Rose and Cornelius exchanged a look, and each of 
them stirrounded his companion with a firmer arm. Their 
horses had already crossed eight leagues at a gallop ; they 
did very well even as far as St. Ouen-l’Aumone, but in 
traversing the village, Belle-Rose felt his mare totter 
under him ; at the same moment Cornelius’ horse stum- 
bled and sank upon its knees; two digs of the spur made 
them rise again, and the animals bounded, neighing with 
pain. Another neigh resounded upon the route, more 
sonorous and still nearer. Deroute loaded his pistols. 

“In ten minutes they have gained half a league,” said 
he; “in half an hour, if they keep on in this fashion, they 
will be upon us.” . 

Belle-Rose’s and Cornelius’ horses, sustained by the 
bridle and the spur, fled along the route, but their flanks 


286 THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF ST. CLAIRE. 

were white with foam, and they were giving way under 
their double burden. Suzanne and Claudine dared not 
speak, but at times they threw, above the shoulders of 
the cavaliers, a long glance over the white road which was 
lost in the transparent night. Deroute and the faithfu*! 
Grippard galloped side by side, mute and resolute. The 
little troop turned around Pontoise ; the foam of the pant- 
ing horses was becoming red about the nostrils. When 
they were near d’Ennery, Deroute heard pass with the 
breeze a neigh so vigorous that he turned his head. A 
black speck was visible upon the road, growing larger and 
larger. 


CHAPTER XLIII. 

THE ABBESS OP THE CONVENT OP ST. CLAIRE. 

This black speck was Monsieur de Pomereux riding at 
full speed. Scarcely had he heard the neigh of the mare 
ridden by Belle-Rose, when he dug both spurs into his 
horse ; the stallion, excited by the emanations which were 
exhaled from the humid flanks of the mare, left like an 
arrow. In three minutes the count had passed Monsieur 
de Charny. Nothing was heard of Bouletord and his men. 
At some hundred steps from d’Ennery, Deroute, measuring 
with his eye the distance which still separated Belle-Rose 
from Monsieur de Pomereux, whom he had recognized, 
understood that it was time to take the decisive part. He 
rushed toward the captain, and pointed out to him with 
his Anger the cavalier who was approaching with the 
rapidity of a thunderbolt. 

“There are four men behind him,” said he. 

Belle-Rose leaned toward Cornelius. 

“I confide Suzanne to you,” he murmured to him. 

“I was going to confide Claudine to you,” replied the 
Irishman. 

“Grab your pistols!” exclaimed Deroute, “here they 
are!” 

The sergeant fired at once, but the shot, not aimed well, 
only plowed its way through the count’s hat. The count 
passed before him like a bullet and fell upon Belle-Rose. 
But scarcely had the two blades crossed, when Monsieur 
de Pomereux recognized the stranger who had come to Ms 
aid at Dover. 


THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF ST. CLAIKE. 287 


“Morbleu!” he exclaimed, “I owe you my life!” and he 
lowered the point of his sword. 

Belle-Rose pushed straight up to him. 

“Forget it and let us finish!” he exclaimed. 

Monsieur de Pomereux let his sword remain lowered 
^and saluted him with the hand. 

“In my place, monsieur, you would do nothing of the 
kind,” he said; “permit me, then, to imitate you in some- 
thing. I have besides my revenge to take, and I wish it in 
its entirety.” 

The count spoke with a dignity which struck Belle-Rose ; 
in his turn the captain turned the point of his sword 
toward the ground. 

“Here are the lackeys!” exclaimed Deroute. 

“The lackeys belong to the master, and the master is 
conquered,” replied the count. 

As he said this, he took his sword in both hands, and 
breaking the blade, he threw away th,a pieces. 

“What are you doing?” exclaimed"Belle-Rose. 

“You have conquered and disarmed me, that is all,” re- 
plied the count. 

Suzanne gave him her hand; Monsieur de Pomereux 
kissed it with as much grace as if he had been at a ball, 
and threw himself before his lackeys. 

“Down with the muskets!” he exclaimed. 

The stupefied lackeys obeyed. Monsieur de Pomereux 
made some steps in the direction of Belle-Rose and Cor- 
nelius. 

“Go,” he said to them ; “over there, to your left, in the 
direction of Livilliers ; there is an abbey where you will 
undoubtedly be received. But above all, do not delay a 
minute. Listen ! ’ ’ 

All listened intently. The gallop of a troop of cavaliers 
resounded a quarter of a league away.- 

“Monsieur de Charny is not far off, and Bouletord fol- 
lows him with seven or eight archers, ” continued Monsieur 
de Pomereux. 

“You are a noble young man!” exclaimed Cornelius, 
shaking him cordially by the hand. 

“What would you, one must pay one’s debts,” Monsieur 
de Pomereux gayly answered him. 

The fugitives entered a path which led through the 
fields. They had not made five hundred steps when Boule- 
tord and Monsieur de Charny came up with Monsieur de 
Pomereux. The police rode fresh horses, which they had 
found at an inn upon the road, . a little before St. Ouen- 


288 THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF ST. CLAIEE. 


FAumone. These horses belonged to a band of jockeys 
•who were taking them to Paris ; Bouletord having heard 
them neigh and prance in the stable, had stopped and de- 
manded them in the name of the king. The jockeys had 
resisted at first, but at sight of the uniform and muskets 
they had submitted ; the horses which Bouletord and his 
men had been riding were left in the stable, and they rode 
away on the others, quickly coming up with Monsieur de 
Charny. 

“Are they taken?” asked Monsieur de Charny, a mo- 
ment immovable in the middle of the road. 

“Who?” 

“Eh! parbleu! Belle-Rose and his gang?” 

“My faith, they are still flying.” 

“They are flying,, and you do not pursue them?” 

“I have my account, my dear Monsieur de Charny,” re- 
plied Monsieur de Pomereux. “My sword is in pieces, my 
hat is ruined, and in looking more closely, I believe I have 
two inches of steel in my coat.” 

“Sangdieu! forward!” howled Bouletord, who had 
stopped three minutes to hear this conversation. 

“Forward! you fellows!” cried Monsieur de Charny, ad- 
dressing himself to the lackeys. 

Monsieur de Pomereux threw himself in front of them. 

“Every one of you stay where you are!” he exclaimed. 
And turning to Monsieur de Charny, he added: “My rival 
has my word; go, we will be your witnesses.” 

Monsieur de Charny threw upon the count a disdainful 
look and rode away. 

Monsieur de Pomereux followed with the lackeys. Be- 
tween Bouletord and Belle-Rose there was almost a quarter 
of a league; both troops moved forward rapidly. On 
rounding a small hill. Deroute got down off his horse. 

“Take my horse,” said he to Belle-Rose ; “he is in better 
trim than yours, having carried only me.” 

Grippard imitated Deroute in favor of Cornelius. The 
exchange was made in two seconds, and the young people 
set spurs to their horses, who plunged forward with a 
desperate energy. It was a last effort, the impulse lasted 
five minutes ; at the end of this time the horses began to 
lose ground. Bouletord gained steadily upon them. Be- 
tween Bouletord and his archers there was a hundred 
steps distance. Deroute and Grippard, who were riding 
together, formed a sort of rear-guard for the fugitives. As 
they emerged from a little wood, Deroute saw in the plain 
the white walls of an abbey whose steeple was outlined 


THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF ST. CLAIKE. 289 

upon the pale sky. At this sight Bouletord, who divined 
the intention of the fugitives, uttered a cry of rage and 
pricked his horse with the point of his sword. His archers 
imitated him ; they seemed to devour the ground. Deroute 
measured with his glance the distance which lay between 
Belle-Rose and the abbey ; it was sufficient to make it 
probable that Bouletord would reach the captain before he 
had crossed it. 

“Now is the time,” said the sergeant. 

. He stopped his horse, took the musket hung to the 
saddle-horn, and loaded it. When Deroute turned toward 
Bouletord, a terrible expression was depicted upon his 
face. He lowered his musket and held his enemy under 
his aim for the space of ten seconds ; his arm seemed of 
iron like the barrel, so immovable was it. When Bouletord 
was not more than about thirty steps away, he fired. 
Bouletord let go the reins and fell upon the horse’s neck. 
His hand seized the mane and held to it ; the frightened 
horse flew like an arrow and passed before Deroute, carry- 
ing away its rider, whose livid head beat its flanks. The 
ball had struck the quartermaster in the forehead. At the 
end of a hundred steps Bouletord slipped from the horse 
and fell at the feet of Belle-Rose, who seized the horse by 
the bridle’and stopped it. Monsieur de Charny was follow- 
ing Bouletord at the head of the archers. Grippard, as the 
reader knows, imagined that in everything it was best to 
imitate Deroute. Just as Deroute took his musket, Grip- 
pard took his, when Deroute took aim at Bouletord, 
Grippard sought something to place at the end of his 
barrel. Monsieur de Charny came in very nicely. After 
the sergeant’s shot, Grippard, like a conscientious man, 
pressed the trigger with his finger. But Monsieur de 
Charny ’s horse having reared at the first explosion, Grip- 
pard ’s ball, which should have struck Monsieur de Charny, 
struck the beast instead. The horse fell upon its hocks, 
rose, and fell again, drawing Monsieur de Charny down 
with it in its fall. The police, seeing their two chiefs 
stretched out on the ground, came to a sudden stop ; two 
or three archers dismounted in order to assist Monsieur de 
Charny, the others discharged their muskets at Deroute 
and Grippard; but Grippard and Deroute were already 
flying in the direction of the abbey ; the balls whistled in 
their ears, and that was all. Monsieur de Pomereux, at 
the head of his lackeys, galloped behind the archers and 
appeared to take a keen interest in the incidents of this 
skirmish. As soon as he was near Monsieur de Charny he 


290 THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF ST. CLAIRE. 

dismounted and went to inform himself as to the state of 
his health. 

“When you fell, monsieur, I was much afraid,” said he; 
“but, so far as I can see, you are not wounded,” 

“Not at all,” replied Monsieur de Charny, in a surly 
tone. 

“It is a stroke of luck, monsieur; for, in truth, we must 
render justice to these fellows’ talents. As a result of it, I 
lose a horse worth a thousand crowns.” 

“Eh! monsieur, instead of discoursing, it seems to me 
that you would do better to gallop!” exclaimed Monsieur 
de Charny. 

“That is a point upon which I regret not to be in accord 
with your lordship. Certainly I am not altogether dead 
like that poor devil Bouletord, but I am not much better 
off.” 

Monsieur de Charny shrugged his shoulders. 

“What would you?” continued Monsieur de Pomereux, 
“these people have not my life, but they have my word.” 

Monsieur de Charny bit his lips till the blood came. 

“Your horse,” said he, addressing an archer. 

The archer dismounted, and Monsieur de Charny leaped 
into the saddle. 

“Forward! you men!” he exclaimed. 

All the troop followed him. 

Monsieur de Pomereux threw his eyes in the direction 
of the abbey. The fugitives had profited by the disorder 
occasioned by the death of Bouletord and the fall of Mon- 
sieur de Charny. They were now within a hundred steps 
of the abbey. The two women had been placed upon 
Bouletord’s horse; they were the first to reach the abbey. 

“Madame,” they said to the nun who received them, 
“there are two gentlemen here who claim your protection 
— if you do not come to their aid, they are lost.” 

“Let them enter if they are innocent, let; them also enter 
if they are guilty,” said the nun, “the house of God is an 
exile open to all the unfortunate.” 

Belle-Bose’s horse fell at the door of the abbey ; that of 
Cornelius had fallen at fifty steps from it ; the blood came 
from its nostrils ; it pawed the earth with its feet and died. 
Deroute and Grippard had abandoned theirs upon the road 
and were running as fast as their legs could carry them. 
All entered through the half-open door; just as the nun 
pushed it shut. Monsieur de Charny was seen passing like 
a flash between the trees of the avenue. Suzanne fell on 
her knees and thanked God. 


THE ABBESS OP THE CONVENT OF ST. CLAIRE. 291 

- “In faith !” said Monsieur de Pomereux, when he was at 
"the foot of the walls, “I believe that our birds have found 
.another nest. It is my opinion that it would be well for 
us now to seek another inn.” 

But Monsieur de Charny passed straight before him and 
struck at the door of the abbey with the handle of his 
sword. Monsieur de Pomereux stopped his horse and be- 
gan to caress it with his hand. 

“Vulcan will be foundered,” said he; “it is a thousand 
crowns that I will make Monsieur de Louvois pay me. ’ ’ 

Monsieur de Charny kept on striking. 

“Monsieur,” continued the count, “if yon knock so 
Lard, you will have to answer to the Bishop of Paris, who 
is very jealous of the rights of the church.” 

All this tumult at an advanced hour of the night had 
drawn the abbey from its repose. 

“Open in the- name of the king!” cried Monsieur de 
Charny. 

Meanwhile the abbess made her appearance. The fugi- 
tives had been introduced into a kind of parlor, where 
they were waiting, pursued by the threatening voice of 
Monsieur de Charny. When the door of the parlor opened, 
the abbess trembled and drew her vail around her face. 

“Welcome, my sisters; and you, gentlemen, hope,” said 
she. 

Her grave and sweet voice calmed their anguish ; it ap- 
peared to Claudine that they no longer had anything to 
fear; she bowed over the abbess’ hand and kissed it. 
Belle-Rose felt his heart beat without being able to under- 
stand why. 

“Say to that man who strikes at our door, ” said the 
abbess, addressing herself to a sister, “that the superior of 
the Abbey of St. Claire d’ Ennery will presently answer 
him herself. ’ ’ 

The abbess withdrew, and the sister went out to execute 
her order. At the sister’s words. Monsieur de Charny 
threw a look of triumph at Monsieur de Pomereux and 
sheathed his sword. 

Monsieur de Pomereux looked at Monsieur de Charny, 
smiled and did not reply. 

“Come, ” thought the count, “if he is silent, it is that 
he believes me lost.” 

A quarter of an hour passed in a profoud silence. Mon- 
sieur de Charny went and came, somber and threatening, 
before the great door of the abbey. Monsieur de Pomereux 
stealthily examined the priming of his pistol. 


292 THE ABBESS OF THE CONVENT OF ST. CLAIRE. 


“After all this Monsieur de Charny is a bandit,” he said 
to himself, “and I shall get out of it with a foreign trip.” 

Just then the great door of the abbey opened, and a 
marvelous spectacle was presented to the eyes of the 
cavaliers. The sanctuary of the abbey was lit up ; banners 
floated around the altar, aiid incense smoked in the casso- 
lettes; the kneeling sisters were singing sacred hymns, 
and at the feet of the protecting cross were to be seen the 
kneeling fugitives. The Christ seemed to cover them with 
its mutilated arms, and the marble angels raised to heaven 
their hands joined in the attitude of prayer. At the mo- 
ment when the door revolved upon its hinges the abbess, 
preceded by the cross and banner, and followed by nuns in 
long flies, turned toward the porch. The holy procession 
advanced slowly and stopped beside the great columns ; 
the abbess crossed the threshold ; the silver cross shone 
between her hands, and the banner of the order floated 
above her forehead. When she had set foot outside the 
abbey, the songs died away. The archers had at flrst 
taken off their hats, but at sight of the cross, they hesi- 
tated ; one of them dismounted, and throwing down his 
musket, knelt down upon the grass, another imitated him, 
then a third, then all, conquered by this costume of re- 
ligion. Monsieur de Pomereux was the first to uncover his 
forehead and leap from the saddle. Monsieur de Charny 
alone remained in the saddle, his head uncovered and his 
hand upon " the guard of bis sword. Between the abbess 
and he there were scarcely ten steps ; beyond the sisters, 
in the light of the choir, he saw Belle-Rose and Suzanne; 
near them, Cornelius and Claudine; behind them. Deroute 
and Grippard. Monsieur de Charny urged forward his 
horse. The horse made three steps and stopped. The 
brilliant light of the chapel frightened it. The abbess ex- 
tended the cross tov^ard Monsieur de Charny, and with the 
other hand she pointed out the fugitives. 

“This is the house of God,” said she, “and God protects 
those whom you seek. Enter now if you dare.” 

Monsieur de Charny recoiled slowly like a conquered 
tiger. When he was twenty step away, the abbess returned 
to the chapel, and the door closed with a sonorous noise. 
Then, pushing aside her vail, she showed to the fugitives 
the face of Genevieve deLaNoue, Duchess de Chateaufort. 


A NEST IN A CONVENT. 


293 


CHAPTER XLIV. 

A NEST IN A CONVENT. 

After the door of the Abbey of St. Claire d’Ennery had 
closed upon the fugitives, Monsieur de Pomereux turned 
to Monsieur de Charny. 

“Well, monsieur?” said the count 

“I return to Paris,” replied Monsieur de Charny. 

“To see my glorious cousin, no doubt.” 

“To see Monsieur de Louvois, to whom I will make 
known the aid which you have lent me in all this affair; I 
have no doubt but what he will dejnonstrate to you his 
.keen satisfaction in the matter.” 

‘ ‘ Parbleu ! my dear Monsieur de Charny, I count on your 
friendship to be assured that you will be the first to bring 
me news of it. ” 

The body of Bouletojrd was picked up from the road, and 
the little troop gained Pontoise, where Monsieur de Charny 
and Monsieur de Pomereux separated. The former took 
post horses and returned to Paris ; the other looked around 
the streets until he had found a cabaret, and gayly in- 
stalled himself therein. Monsieur de Pomereux conducted 
himself in a manner to prove to the most incredulous that 
bad fortune had not deprived him of his appetite. At day- 
break the count buckled on his belt and paid his reckoning. 

“Monsieur de Charny must, by this time,” he said to 
himself, “have rendered an account to my illustrious 
cousin of the result of our pursuit. It is a narrative which 
will have shown me under such an heroic point of view, 
that I will hardly know how to escape the gratitude of 
monseigneur le ministre, I have indeed a small pretext to 
allege in my justification, but with a minister of that 
character, it is necessary to be fourteen times right not to 
be in the wrong ; my pretext is insufficient. I have still 
the resource of going to fight the Turks, but, in the mean- 
time, the shortest way is to go to Chantilly. When I shall 
be in the house of the Prince de Conde, the minister will 
respect me beyond all question. My pretext will at once ^ 
take the stature of a truth.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux mounted his horse, took an un- 
used road and went straight to the royal residence of the 
Prince de Conde. The Prince de Conde, the same who was 
one day to be called the great Conde, had seen the father 


294 


A NEST IN A CONVENT. 


and eldest brother of the Comte de Pomereux upon the 
battle-field of Rocroi ; the brother had been killed in Flan- 
ders, fighting under him. He gave a cordial welcome to 
him who came to sit down in the shadow of his name. 
Monsieur de Pomereux could at once regard himself as an 
officer of his household. When Monsieur de Charny had 
informed Monsieur de Louvois of the events of the night, 
the minister leaped in his chair. He had him repeat the 
details of this flight, and Monsieur de Charny omitted no 
circumstance of it. Monsieur de Louvois had sat down 
again and was listening to him with keen attention. This 
apparent calm in such a violent nature, announced a 
deep resentment. After he had finished, Monsieur de 
Louvois arose. 

“You know,” said he, “His Majesty’s disposition. The 
king does not trifle in matters of religion. All that which 
concerns the things of the church is sacred to him. If you 
had penetrated the sanctuary of the abbey, I would have 
been constrained to disown you, and perhaps he would 
never have pardoned me this violence. We must wait.” 

Monsieur de Charny fixed his piercing look upon the 
minister. 

“To wait is not to forget,” continued Monsieur de Lou- 
vois. “Let it be in a month or a year, sooner or later, 
Belle-Rose and Madame d’Albergotti will leave the Abbey 
of St. Claire d’Ennery ; fortune has aided them too often 
not to betray them some day. That day will be ours.” 

“We will wait,” said Monsieur de Charny, with a 
sinister smile. 

“Find out what they are doing and what they wish to 
do. If either or both of them try to quit the abbey, place 
no obstacle in their way, but watch for their departure. 
Too much precaution would frighten them and give to 
Madame de Chateaufort and Monsieur de Luxembourg the 
time to act for them. They must be imprudent. You 
understand me?” 

“Perfectly. ” 

“We have been tricked twice; it is twice too many 
times ; Belle-Rose has escaped from the Bastile, Madame 
d’Albergotti has fled from the convent, they are now 
united ” 

“One victory will avenge two defeats.” 

“As to Monsieur de Pomereux, I will show him that 
chivalry is out of date.” 

“I believe that he was wounded, monseigneur,” said 
Monsieur de Charny, with an air of commiseration,” 


/ 


A NEJiT IN A CONVENT. 


295 


^‘Why did he not continue? He would have had less 
trouble to get himself killed.” 

“But he had pledged his word.” 

“And his word pledges his head, monsieur.” 

While Monsieur de Pomereux was at Chantilly with the 
Prince de Conde, and Monsieur de Charny with Monsieur 
de Louvois at Paris, the fugitives were blessing God who 
had protected them in their enterprise. No expression 
could paint the surprise of Belle-Rose and Suzanne when 
they saw the face of Madame de Chateaufort. Both looked 
at her in a frightened manner, while she advanced toward 
them, calm and smiling. It was no longer the same 
woman; grief had passed over that beautiful forehead, 
and it had left behind an unalterable sadness, spread like 
a vail over her features. 

“Be without distrust,” she said to them ; “this house is 
yours, and the hand of God is between you and those who 
hate you.” 

Genevieve embraced Slizanne and Claudine and saluted 
Belle-Rose with a pale and sweet smile. Belle-Rose found 
nothing to say in reply. 

In the heart of Suzanne there was<ho longer room for 
hatred. If jealousy awoke for a moment at sight of Gene- 
vieve, she quickly dismissed this sentiment, unworthy of 
both, and returned the abbess’ sisterly kiss. The nuns re- 
tired to their cells, and Genevieve herself showed the 
guests to the apartments destined for them. Belle-Rose, 
Cornelius, Deroute, and Grippard were established in a 
detached building in the gardens of the abbey; Suzanne 
and Claudine remained with the abbess. 

The next day at noon Madame de Chateaufort sent for 
Belle-Rose. She received him in an oratory whose only 
window opened updn a landscape such as Paul Poter 
loved. In the distance, a river — the Oise — bathed with 
its sluggish waters great plains adorned with poplars ; on 
the misty horizon were the steeples of Anvers and Heron- 
ville, some cottages scattered here and there behind 
clumps of trees, weeping-willows along the streams, and 
in the grass a herd of cows and oxen. The sun tinted 
these two landscapes with a golden light which seemed 
sifted by the fog. The merles whistled among the hedges, 
and the rattling of the cow-bells was heard in the mead- 
ows. A sort of monastic luxury shone in the oratorj^ ; the 
abbess had not been able to prevent herself remaining a 
great lady. The ivory Christ was the most beautiful model 
of Jean Goujon; the i^ictures attached to the oak panels 


A ISiEST IN A CONVENl^ 


m 

belonged to the best Italian painters, among them being 
a Nativity, by Corregio, a St. Claire, of Andre del Sarto, a 
Virgin with the Child, of Guido ; the holy- water basin and 
the angel were the work of Germain Pilou. In this ora- 
tory, religion made itself sweet and attractive. Genevieve 
could not avoid a keen emotion on seeing Belle-Rose. A 
tear hovered between her eyelashes. 

“I thought myself strong, ’ ’ she said to him, “and see how 
your presence stirs my heart. It is a proof no doubt that 
God has wished to try me ; he has aided me, he will aid 
me.” 

Belle-Rose’s heart gave a bound; he turned aside' his eyes 
and looked through the window at the fields and the hori- 
zon to keep Genevieve from seeing his emotion. 

“And besides, Jacques, why should I not weep before 
you?” she continued; “there are hours when tears are 
agreeable to God; it seems to me that suffering is more 
fruitful than prayer, and I have suffered so much that I 
begin to believe that I am pardoned. ’ ’ 

Conquered by these words, Belle-Bose took Genevieve’s 
hand and carried it to his heart; his eyes were filled with 
tears, and he no longer concealed them. 

“You, too!” said she; “then I am still dear to you. 
Stay, Jacques! I have consecrated all my life and all my 
soul to God, and yet not a day passes that I do not pray to 
Him for you.” 

“You are my sister, Genevieve, and another life which 
you do not share would be little to me, ’ ’ Belle-Rose said to 
her. 

Genevieve softly pressed his hand. 

“Your words are sweet to me, ” said she, “but permit 
me to forget myself in order to speak of you.” 

“Speak, Genevieve.” 

“I have talked all night with Suzanne; she has un- 
bosomed herself to me as to a sister, and I know what 
griefs have agitated you both since that evening at Ville- 
juif. It is the hand of God which has led you here. You 
have entered here wandering and proscribed, you will 
leave it free and married. ” 

Belle-Rose trembled at these words. 

“If misfortune visits you, at least you will be two to 
support it ; if happiness smiles on you at last, it will ap- 
pear more sweet to you being together, ” added Madame 
de Chateaufort. “You must not quit this exile before a 
priest has blessed your love. Two spouses can live in the 
shade of this abbey; can two lovers do so?” 


A NEST IN A CONVENT. 


297 


“I "will do as Suzanne wishes,” said Belle-Rose. 

“Suzanne is ready,” replied Genevieve; “in three da5^s 
you will be married.” 

Belle-Rose then withdrew. Left alone, Madame de 
Chateaufort knelt down before her prie-Dieu. 

“My God!” said she, in a voice broken by sobs, “bless 
them and may they be happy.” 

She remained a long time immovable ; when she arose, 
her face was like that of a martyr, suffering and resigned. 
The Abbess of St. Claire d’Ennery sent for the Bishop of 
Mantes, who promised to give to the young couple the 
nuptial benediction, and it was decided that Claudine and 
Cornelius should get married on the same day. 

The evening before the day fixed for the ceremony. Mon- 
sieur de Pomereux presented himself at the abbey. No 
sooner than he had been announced Belle-Rose and Cor- 
nelius ran to meet him. The three young people embraced. 

“Morbleu!” exclaimed the count, “it seems that I am 
always destined to act contrary to good sense ; I ought to 
hate you with all my soul, and I feel that I love you with 
all my heart.” 

“You have made the history of my sentiments,” replied 
Belle-Rose. 

“Now that I have paid upon the Pontoise road the bill 
of exchange which you drew upon me in a street in Dover, 
speak to me of your affairs. ’ ’ 

Cornelius related to Monsieur de Pomereux what had 
been resolved upon. 

“We are to get married in the abbey chapel,” he added; 
“but, considering the situation of things around the mon- 
astery, we could just as easily get married in great pomp 
in the parochial church of Pontoise.” 

“What! not an archer in the neighborhood?” said the 
count. 

“Not one; besides, you ought to have been able to con- 
vince yourself of it while coming here. Have you met a 
single member of the police?” 

“Not a single one, and that is what worries me.” 

“Would you have preferred to see fifty of them?” 

“Perhaps, yes.” 

“This is pleasant.” 

“Eh! pardieu! when Monsieur de Charny acts, one at 
least knows what he is doing ; but when he keeps still, 
Lucifer himself cannot divine what he meditates. If there 
are no alguazils around the abbey, it means that there is a 
crowd of spies a quarter of a league away,” 


298 A NEST IN A CONVENT. 

The justness of this observation struck Cornelius and 
Belle-Rose. 

“Hold,” added Monsieur de Pom ereux, “happiness lulls 
you. You know Monsieur de Charny, and you have seen 
him at work. Form your conclusions. ’ ’ 

“Thanks,” said Belle-Rose, pressing the count’s hand; 
“therefore you advise us to be on our guard. ” 

“More than ever; I do not know where the peril lies, 
but it is somewhere. When Monsieur de Charny does not 
bark, ’tis because he is making ready to bite.” 

Deroute was warned. 

“Good!” said he, “I still have some powder and lead.” 

Thereupon he began to load his muskets and pistols. 

The Bishop of Mantes arrived the next day. The altar 
was decorated with flowers. Claudine, red as a strawberry, 
knelt down near Cornelius, not far from Belle-Rose and 
Suzanne. Genevieve was seated in the choir with the 
other witnesses, who were Monsieur de Pomereux, De- 
route, and Grippard. The abbess had assumed the insignia 
of her religious rank and taken off her vail. When the 
ceremony was over the abbess signed first upon the parish 
register. Suzanne threw herself into her arms. 

“I owe my happiness to you,” she said to her, “how 
shall I ever repay you?” 

“Love me,” replied Genevieve, “and we shall be quits.” 

A lodging had been prepared for the two couples in a 
building belonging to the abbey, but separated from the 
main building by vast gardens. The sisters never passed a 
certain limit which the superior alone had the right to 
cross. The newly married couples went to this house, 
where they were at the same time free and in safety. 

“You are at home here, and you will stay here so long 
as it pleases you, ” Genevieve said to them. “Be happy. I 
withdraw.” 

“Will you not sometimes come to visit us in this retreat 
which we owe to you?” Suzanne pleaded. 

“Yes,” replied Madame de Chateaufort, kissing heron 
the forehead, “I will return at times to breathe in the 
shade of your happiness.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux was walking the room ; all at 
once his eyes fell upon a box placed on a piece of furniture. 
He picked it up, and seeing the name upon the superscrip- 
tion, he uttered a slight cry. Suzanne turned around, and 
seeing him quite pale, ran to him. 

“What is the matter with you?” said she. 

“Who has given you this box?” he replied. 


THE CHEVALIER D'ARRAINES. 299 

“Gabrielle de Mesle, a poor girl who died in the con- 
vent.” 

“Gabrielle is dead?” exclaimed Monsieur de Pom ereux, 
trembling. 

“Yes,” replied Suzanne, “her last sigh has been the 
name written upon that box.” 

“The Chevalier d’Arraines! she still loved him, then!” 

“Do you know him?” exclaimed Suzanne. 

“I am he, my God!” 

As he said this, the count fell upon a chair and concealed 
his face between his hands. ' 


CHAPTER XLV. 

THE CHEVALIER d’ARRAINES. 

Grief in a man so frivolous in appearance as Monsieur de 
Pomereux had something strange and sincere about it 
which profoundly touched the spectators. All were silent. 
Suzanne opened the little box and drew from it the letter 
and tress of hair which she handed to the count. 

“This,” said she, “is all that is left of Gabrielle.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux took the letter and pressed it to 
his lips at the place where was to be seen the handwriting 
of the dead girl. As to reading wTiat she had written, he 
could not, so dimmed were his eyes by tears. Presently 
he arose, and taking one of Suzanne’s hands and extending 
the other to Belle-Rose, he said to them : 

“I am accustomed to jest and I weep like a child ; but 
before you it seems to me that I can do so.” 

“These tears make us esteem you more,” Suzanne said 
to him. “Kind hearts are the only ones that suffer. ” 

Monsieur de Pomereux had Suzanne relate the details 
-which she had received from the mouth of Gabrielle. The 
.death of this poor girl agitated him profoundly. 

“She was so young and so good! What was I doing, 
great God! while she was dying?” said he. 

And he again burst into sobs. 

Wretch that I am ! How comes it that I have not 
divined her presence at the convent? I would have 
snatched her from it. ” 

“She would not have permitted it,” said Suzanne. 

“It is a terrible story! Was I worthy of that puie heart? 
I have lived in a strange fashion, and nevertheless I have 


300 


THE CHEVALIER D’ARRAINES. 


always loved her. I have followed many miry paths, car- 
ried far fi^om her by I know not what indomitable passion, 
what insatiable desires ; but in this existence, she is the 
only thing which I have surrounded with love and re- 
spect. She was the drop of dew upon the arid rock, the 
perfumed flower among the thorns. Poor Gabrielle ! When 
I met her, I was a younger son, having for sole fortune 
only the cloak and the sword. The Chevalier d’Arraines 
was not a suitable match for the daughter of the Marquis 
de Mesle ; I loved her, and I told her so without knowing 
why. Later my brother died ; heir to the title and the 
name, I could almost aspire to her hand ; but I was with- 
out news of her, and it was then that my father sent me to 
Malzonvilliers. Since that visit, my days have flowed 
away like water; nothing is left to me except a little foam 
on the surface. Poor Gabrielle!” 

Having said this, he walked a few steps and then re- 
turned to Suzanne. 

“You have assisted at her agonj^ and consoled her suffer- 
ing,” he said to her. “In joy and in misfortune, come 
what may, by the sacred name of Gabrielle, I am your 
friend.” 

This scene in which Monsieur de Pomereux had shown 
himself in an entirely new light, made a profound impres- 
sion upon the young people ; they separated from the count 
with deeply touched hearts. 

“It is a happy day,” said Suzanne; “we have found 
again one friend and gained another.” 

At some hundred steps from the abbey Monsieur de 
Pomereux encountered a man who was walking along the 
road. The fellow examined him very attentively as he 
passed by. The count, who did not love curious people, 
started toward him ; but the rascal threw himself into a 
thicket, where he was soon sheltered from all pursuit.” 

“This proves to me that I was not deceived, ” Monsieur 
de Pomereux said to himself. “I should be much sur- 
prised if this man was not in the service of Monsieur de 
Charny. ” 

At Ecouen, Monsieur de Pomereux remounted the car- 
riage which had brought him from Chantilly, and took the 
road to Paris, giving orders to the postilion to go to Mon- 
sieur de Louvois’. He had an idea of the welcome which 
awaited him at the minister’s; but the young count was 
one of those adventurous minds who take pleasure in vio- 
lent situations and find a great charm in struggles where 
life is imperiled. As soon as he had learned of the arrival 


THE CHEVALIER D’ARRAINES. 


301 


of Monsieur de Pomereux, Monsieur de Louvois hastened 
to have him shown up. The count did not at first see the 
face of the minister, who was just then drinking from a 
large jugful of water. 

“Piable!” he murmured, “he must be very angry to be 
so exceedingly thirsty.” 

“Ah! ah! my handsome cousin, so you have returned, 
have you?” said the minister^ throwing, when he had 
finished drinking, a keen and swift glance at the Comte de 
Pomereux. 

“Come! I was not deceived,” thought the count, who 
sustained unflinchingly the threatening glance of the min- 
ister. Aloud he said: 

“In faith, yes, monseigneur; I experienced such a vio- 
lent annoyance over not having seen you recently, that 
my first visit at Paris has been to see you. ” 

“It is an instance of great zeal for which I thank you, 
my dear count.” 

“Not at all! no one has a whole family of cousins like 
yourself, and when perchance one possesses one, one owes 
everything to him. ” 

“I have always counted upon your devotion; it appears 
even that this devotion has passed beyond my expecta- 
tion. ’ ’ 

“You flatter me.” 

“Not in the least; I am informed that in the neighbor- 
hood of d’Ennery, you comported yourself like a chevalier 
of the age of chivalry. You have eclipsed the glory of 
Amidas, and the illustrious Galaor himself is only a 
coward beside you.” 

“Ah ! monseigneur! you put too much faith in the narra- 
tive of Monsieur de Charny.” 

“It is true; it is from him I have learned of your 
exploits.” 

“Monsieur de Charny is an excellent friend! I was quite 
sure that he would act as he has done. ’ ’ 

“Oh! he has concealed nothing from me. Why was I not 
there to applaud your prowess?” ' 

“Your approbation had been my sweetest reward, mon- 
seigneur.” 

The game pleased Monsieur de Louvois, who amused 
himself with Monsieur de Pomereux as a cat does with a 
mouse ; only the mouse had a self-possession which aston- 
ished him a little. 

“My admiration has begun,” continued the minister, 
“at the furious combat which you sustained against 


302 THE CHEVALIER J’ARRAINES. 

Belle-Rose and the terrible Irishman. I have deplored thd 
fatality which has caused your sword to be broken at the 
moment when victory was going to declare itself for you.” 

“War has its ups and downs!” murmured Monsieur de 
Pomereux, with a gesture full of philosophy. 

“Three seconds after, I have been touched even to tears 
at the narrative told me ” 

“Still Monsieur de Charny ” 

“Quite right— at the narrative told me, I say, of your 
constancy in keeping your sworn word. It is beautiful, it 
is grand, it is antique! Regulus would not have con- 
ducted himself better, and I imagine that the shade of 
Aristides ought to be jealous of you. It is a sublime trait*, 
my cousin.” 

“You overwhelm me, monseigneur,” replied the count, 
with a modest air. 

“No, I do you justice.” 

“My God! monseigneur, I have recollected our relation- 
ship.” 

“That is what I have thought. For example, I have 
blessed Providence who took care that your sword did not 
break this time. ” 

“The reason was that fortune owed me a revenge.” 

“Well, would you believe, my charming cousin, that this 
heroic conduct has not produced upon others the effect 
which it has produced on me.” 

“In truth?” 

“There are ill-formed minds which have wished to see 
in these marvelous adventures a determined effort to cross 
the authority of the king.” 

“You don’t say so!” 

“And they have even gone so far as to assert that you 
were no longer worthy of His Majesty’s favor, and that I 
ought to withdraw my protection from you.” 

“As to that I am tranquil.” 

“How well you know me!” exclaimed Monsieur de Lou- 
vois, bathing his lips in the jug of water; “I have repulsed 
these persons in a furious manner; but one of them, who 
is a friend of Monsieur Colbert, has observed to me that it 
was not under such circumstances a suitable thing to 
charge you with a very delicate mission which I had re- 
served for you.” 

“And through respect for circumstances, you have con- 
fided the mission to another.” 

“Should I have allowed myself to be accused of an 
odious partiality?” 


THE CHEVALIER D’ARRAINES. 


303 


“Another person has remarked that the king would not 
be charmed to see at the head of his regiment an officer 
whose co-operation had compromised the success of an 
enterprise in which it was important to succeed. The 
king is somewhat like Monsieur Mazarin ; he likes lucky 
people.” 

“8o 1 have lost the regiment after having lost the mis- 
sion.” 

“Alas! yes; I was much afflicted at *the turn which the 
conversation took when a last blow came to crush me. ’ ’ 

“Ah! there is a last blow?” 

“A horrible blow! After having despoiled you, these 
people have affirmed that it was necessary to arrest you. 
There are fastidious persons who do not believe in broken 
swords and in engagements of honor.” 

“Incredulity is a Parisian vice, monseigneur.” 

“You understand that I have made answer to all these 
people ; unhappily they have returned to the charge, and 
to prevent their imagining that my relationship rendered 
me unjust ” 

“You have given way?” 

“Quite right, my cousin.” 

“And so I am going to be arrested!” 

“It is to the Bastile that you will be sent, and I will 
then give you sufficient leisure to prepare your defense 
for confounding the caluminators. ” 

“It is a project which amuses me; the only thing that 
vexes me is that I cannot execute it, ” replied Monsieur de 
Pomereux, with a thoroughly afflicted air. 

“And why, then, if you please?” 

“Because I shall not go to the Bastile.” 

“You will not go to the Bastile!” exclaimed the min- 
ister, rising. 

“My God, no!” 

“This is pleasant!” 

“No, it is quite serious.” 

“And if I order you to do so?” 

“Then I am sure that the Prince de Conde will forbid 
me doing so.” 

“The Prince de Conde!” repeated Monsieur de Lou vois, 
thoroughly astounded. 

“Himself!” 

“And what has he to do with this affair?” 

“Parbleu! am I not an officer of his household?” 

“You!” 


304 


THE CHEVALIER D’ARRAINES. 


“Certainly. But, in fact, you do not know the half of 
what has taken place. Monsieur de Charny’s narrative 
lacks a denouement. It is quite a story, monseigneur!’’ 

The coolness of Monsieur de Pomereux stupefied Mon- 
sieur de Louvois; he swallowed "a glass of water and came 
near breaking the goblet as he set it back on the table. 

“Do you wish me to relate it to you?’’ continued the 
young gentleman. 

“Relate, but make haste,” replied Monsieur de Louvois, 
striking the floor with his shoe-heel. 

“Oh! it will not take long! Figure to yourself, then, 
that after having quitted Monsieur de Charny at Pontoise, 
I have gone to the Prince de Conde’s at Chantilly. The 
prince has always been kind to my family ; we have a 
thousand proofs of it which I could cite.” 

“Pass over them.” 

“So be it ; this narrative would wound my modesty. I 
had expressed to him my desire to enter his household ; it 
so happened that a post of captain of the hunts was 
vacant ; he has offered it to me, I have accepted it, and 
yesterday morning I entered on my functions. ’ ’ 

Monsieur de Louvois was walking the room, his eyes 
aflame and his brows contracted. 

“This morning,” Monsieur de Pomereux tranquilly con- 
tinued, “the Prince de Conde has sent me to Paris to ter- 
minate certain affairs which particularly concern him. 
You understand that if I accept your offer of going to the 
Bastile, with the object of justifying myself, the affairs 
of the prince will suffer from it. Now, my interests ought 
to be secondary, I believe, to his. The Prince de Conde is 
a prince of the blood, monseigneur.” 

Monsieur de Louvois walked the room like a wild 
beast; anger swelled his bosom. All at once, the idea 
struck him that Monsieur de Pomereux, whose audacity 
he knew, sought to deceive him in order to gain time. 

“Your history is a tale, my honest cousin k” he ex- 
claimed, covering him with his sparkling glance. ' 

“Ah! you think so,” said Monsieur de Pomereux, “well, 
look!” 

Monsieur de Pomereux nonchalantly took Monsieur de 
Louvois by the arm, and leading him to one of the win- 
dows of the apartment which gave upon the court of the 
hotel, he pointed out to him with the finger a carriage 
which was waiting. The livery was the color of that of 
the prince, and upon the panels of the carriage was to be 


THE CHEVALIER D’ARRAINES. 


305 


seen the azure escutcheon with the three golden fleurs de 
lis, with the bar of the house of Conde. ” 

“If any doubt is left you, I can dissipate it,” added the 
count, with the same tranquillity. 

And opening the window, he called, in a loud voice : 

“Hey! I’Epine!” 

A lackey with the livery of the prince ran under the 
window, hat in hand. 

“Lower quickly the carriage footstool, and tell Bourg- 
nignon to tighten the reins; we are going to leave.” 

The lackey saluted and advanced toward the coachman, 
who immediately picked up the reins. Monsieur de Pom- 
ereux shut the window and turned to the minister. 

“You have seen, monseigneur,” said he, smiling. 

Monsieur de Louvois was pale with anger ; great though 
his power was, he could not yet afford to attack a prince 
of the blood. The arrest of an officer of the Prince de 
Conde’s household was one of those things whose conse- 
quences might he incalculable. The princes of the house 
of Conde were extremely jealous of their privileges, and 
they were capable of taking the affair to the king. Simple 
gentleman. Monsieur de Pomereux was open to any attack ; 
captain of the hunts. Monsieur de Pomereux was protected 
by the shield with the three golden fleurs de lis. 

Fury did not so blind Monsieur de Louvois as to keep 
him from seeing clear their respective positions. He 
understood that he was conquered and resigned himself. 
Monsieur de Pomereux waited with crossed arms. 

“Go,” the minister said to him. 

Just as the count was retiring. Monsieur de Louvois de- 
tained him by the arm. 

“You are with Monsieur de Conde,” he said to him, 
“stay with him, my honest cousin. It is a piece pf advice 
which I give you. ” 

“It comes from you, and I will take care not to forget 
it.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux bowed low and went out. 

Since the marriage of Belle-Rose and Suzanne the soft 
shades of the Abbey of St. Claire d’Ennery had seen the 
most beautiful days which the two lovers had yet lived. 
There was a constant succession of long walks in the 
woods, silent reveries on the banks of the murmuring 
streams, charming conversations at evening in the mead- 
ows. 

A time came, however, when Belle-Rose recollected that 
he had a duty to fulfill. This duty he resolved to perform 


306 


OVEE HILLS AND ACEOSS VALLEYS. 


without further delay. He went immediately to seek out 
Deroute, who was amusing himself by making citadels of 
turf with his friend Grippard and to afterward take them 
according to all th« rules of military strategy. He found 
him in a corner of the convent, where he had just opened 
the trench before a bastion. 

“Hey! Deroute! the Bishop of Mantes arrives to-morrow 
evening ; we wdll make arrangements to leave to-morrow 
evening,” he said to him. 

Deroute overthrew the bastion with a kick of his foot 
and threw his hat in the air, crying : 

^‘Vive levoir' 


CHAPTER XL VI. 

OVER HILLS AND ACROSS VALLEYS. 

Since he had attached himself to .the fortunes of Belle- 
Rose, Deroute had contracted a taste for adventures. The 
reader need not be astonished then if the captain’s proposi- 
tion delighted him. 

“You know, Deroute, that to-morrow is the day on 
which the Bishop of Mantes is accustomed to come each 
week to the abbey?” said Belle-Rose. 

“Yes, captain.” 

“Monseigneur is ordinarily accompanied by a numerous 
following.” 

“There are secretaries in surplices and grooms in high 
boots, vicars in cassocks, and lackeys in livery, the former 
in carriages and the latter behind.” 

“So that when all this crowd goes away, no one thinks 
of examining people closely.” 

“It would be a difficult task.” 

“Well, then, I must be one of those who leave the abbey 
to-morrow evening with monseigneur.” 

“And with the livery upon the back, so that the dress 
shall assist the monk to pass.” 

“Yes.” 

“That can be arranged. ” 

“Then you charge yourself with it?” 

“Very willingly. There is in the suite a certain coach- 
man who likes to talk war and battles with me. I will 
relate to him ten sieges and twenty assaults; at the fourth 
skirmish he will be drunk ; when the time comes to blow 
up the mine he will roll under the table, and I will undress 
him at the article of capitulation. ” 


OVER HILLS AND AOROSS VALLEYS. 


30f 


•‘‘You speak of it as if it was already done.” 

“Ell! diable, this man has two vices, and I know them. 
He is mine!” 

“Do you know, Deroute, that if you had not been ser- 
geant of cannoneers, you would perhaps have been one of 
the wise men of Greece?” 

“It had been so much the worse for wisdom ; mine some- 
times borders close on folly.” 

“Let it be what it will, provided that to-morrow I am a 
coachman.” 

“And me something like a lackey or a footman. ” 

“You? no, you stay.” 

“Ah, bah!” 

“Must Suzanne not have a friend upon whom she can 
count?” 

“There is the Irishman.” 

“Cornelius is married.” 

“Precisely; he understands household affaires, while I 
have never been able to speak except of cannons and 
horses. ’ ’ 

“All the same one alone might succeed where two would 
fail; you shall stay.” 

“You are an egotist who keeps all perils for yourself.” 

The next day the Bishop of Mantes reached the walls of 
the abbey ; the daj^s of pastoral visits were holidays for 
the whole community ; the poor of the neighboring villages 
congregated at an early hour around the doors, where alms 
were distributed; the sick had themselves transported 
along the route followed by the holy man who blessed 
them; hejbaptized the little children, confessed the nuns, 
and all the notables of the country came to present him 
their compliments, begging him to appeal for the benedic- 
tions of heaven upon the harvests or the sowing, according 
to the time. The multitude which incumbered the chapel 
of the abbey and all the environs rendered surveillance 
difficult. For whomsoever had wished to quit the convent, 
alone and mix in with the crowd, there was little risk to 
run; mixed with the bishop’s followers, there was still 
less. Deroute did not fail to attract to the refugees’ lodging 
the coachman who had such a great weakness for military 
histories. 

“There is inside,” he said to him, “a great venison pasty 
and some Orleans wine which await you ; if appetite has 
come to you in the open air, we shall breakfast together, 
and, while demolishing the pastj’', I will relate to you the 
siege of Arras, by Monsieur Turenne.” 


308 


OVER HILLS AND ACROSS VALLEYS. 


The coachman confided his horses to the first valet he 
met, and hastened to shut himself up with Deroute. The 
pasty was uncovered, the bottles uncorked, and the narra- 
tive began. While Deroute was treating the coachman, 
Grippard, who had his instructions, was treating a groom. 
As to Belle-Rose, he was writing a letter to Suzanne. 
Toward evening the bishop’s conveyances were prepared 
for departure ; the ecclesiastics mounted within, and the 
lackeys held themselves ready. At this moment Deroute 
ran to seek Belle-Rose. 

“Hey! captain,” he said to him, “the trick is played; 
make haste.” 

Belle-Rose entered the sergeant’s room. The coachman, 
all undressed, was sleeping like a log upon Deroute’s bed, 
who was laughing with all his heart. The clothes were 
spread out upon a chair. 

“He is drunk as a Swiss,” said the sergeant, “and in 
order that the fantasy to wake should not take him, I have 
mixed an effusion of poppy in my Orleans wine.” 

Belle-Rose dressed himself quickly ; the coachman was 
almost of his size and blonde like him ; he pulled the hat 
down over his eyes and descended the stair- way. He was 
being called when he appeared in the court ; he took his 
way toward the bishop’s carriage and climbed upon the 
seat as if he had done nothing else than this all his life. 
As Belle-Rose left, Grippard entered Deroute’s apartment. 

“It is finished,” he said to him. 

Deroute thanked him and disappeared. The bishop had 
mounted within his carriage, Belle-Rose touched the horses 
with the whip, and the team started. At a. quarter of a 
league from the abbey Belle-Rose remarked upon the side 
of the road some ill -looking persons who looked curiously 
at the procession. He recalled the warnings of Monsieur 
de Pomereux, applied a cut of the whip to his horses, and 
passed without being disturbed ; the bishop’s livery pro- 
tected him. They relayed at Meulan, and toward midnight 
they reached Mantes. The first person whom Belle-Rose 
perceived in the court of the episcopal palace was Deroute 
descending from a horse in the costume of a groom. 

“It is still you!” he exclaimed, not knowing if he ought 
to laugh or scold. 

“Still me. When I saw you leave, my legs refused to 
stay there ; they have entered all alone into great boots 
which were close by ; my arms, on their part, have stuffed 
themselves into the stable-coat of a groom who was sleep- 
ing in the fashion of the coachman whom you know ; I 


OVEB HILLS AND ACROSS VALLEYS. 


309 


have found his hat upon my head without knowing how 
it came there, and while I was reflecting on this meta- 
morphosis, my feet have taken the direction of the stable 
where the honest fellow’s horse was quartered. I have let 
them alone, so that in a moment I saw myself in the sad- 
dle ; the horse has left all alone ; I have thought that it 
was Providence which wished it thus, and this is how I 
have galloped to Mantes. ’ ’ 

In proportion as Deroute’s narrative advanced, Belle- 
Rose’s anger, which, to tell the truth, was not very great, 
disappeared. 

“And the groom?” he asked. 

“Oh! he sleeps beside the coachman.” 

Suzanne had found Belle-Rose’s letter. It contained only 
a few words. Belle-Rose informed her that a duty, whose 
accomplishment could not be any longer delayed, called 
him some ten or twelve leagues from the abbey. 

“Pear nothing,” he said to her, in conclusion, “I run no 
danger; our love protects me, and you will see me back in 
three or four days.” 

Suzanne communicated this letter to Cornelius, who 
could not give her any kind of explanation as to the motive 
for this absence. Cornelius only regretted that he had not 
been warned. 

“At least,” said he, “I should have gone with him.” 

An hour after, they perceived Deroute’s absence. 

Suzanne thanked the sergeant in the depth of her heart 
and waited patiently. Belle-Rose and Deroute abandoned 
the episcopal palace during the night, changed clothing, 
procured horses, and left Mantes at daybreak. 

“Now that I am of the expedition,” said Deroute, “you 
will at least tell me where we are going?” 

“We are going to a neighborhood which is three or four 
leagues from Rambouillet. ” 

“How do you name this neighborhood?” 

“Rochefort. ” 

“A pretty nook of ground surrounded by woods and 
meadovrs; where there are no trees there is grass; the 
chickens there are excellent, the girls not ferocious, and 
the wine not too bad. ’ ’ 

“You know Rochefort?” 

“I have gone there on a recruiting expedition, some five 
or six years ago. ” 

“So that you have preserved at the same time the mem- 
ory of the heart and of the stomach. ’ ’ 

“What recollections shall I carry away this time?” 


310 OVEll HILLS AND ACliOSS VALLEYS. 

“For this time, my poor fellow, you will Scarcely have 
the leisure to continue your studies upon the character of 
the Rochefort girls ; you will eat two or three pullets if 
you wish, but you will only drink enough wine to keep 
you in good health. ’ ’ 

“Eh! eh! this has to me the air of an expedition.” 

‘^It is in act something approaching it; we have left 
two, there will be three of us when we return. ” 

“Ah! diable!” said Deroute, fixing upon Belle-Rose a 
curious glance. 

“This third person is not, just now, much higher than 
your boot. ’ 

“A child.” 

“Quite right.” 

Deroute had a question at the end of his lips, but he 
dared not ask it ; Belle-Rose guessed it from the air of his 
face and smiled. This smile gave courage to Deroute, who 
was observing him from the corner of his eye ; he opened 
his mouth. 

“Say, then, my captain, this little fellow has to me the 
appearance of being a little cannoneer. ’ ’ 

“This little fellow is a light-horseman.” 

For once Deroute was nonplused; he scratched his 
forehead and sought in his mind what connection there 
could be between his master and the little cavalier. He 
would have sought a long time without finding anything, 
if Belle-Rose had not drawn him from his embarrassment. 

“My comrade,” said he, “this light-horseman is a 
nephew of Monsieur de Naucrais.” 

“A nephew of the colonel!” exclaimed Deroute, leaping 
with joy in his saddle. 

“Exactly.” 

“Well, captain, we will make of him a marshal of 
France. ’ ’ 

“Certainly; and to begin with, you will teach him how 
to handle arms. ’ ’ 

The two travelers took the road by ^Septeuil and Mont- 
fort-FAmaury ; it was at the same time the shortest and 
the surest way. The road was little traveled, and it was 
not probable that Monsieur de Charny’s agents had spread 
in that direction. They slept at Rambouillet, and at sun- 
rise the following morning they went to Rochefort. At 
the moment of starting Deroute absented himself some 
minutes; when he returned to the hostelry Belle-Rose 
asked him the cause of his absence. 

“This is it,” replied the sergeant; “it has seemed to me 


OVEK HILLS AND ACKOSS VALLEYS. 


311 


that for people who go on an expedition we are not very 
well armed, yon with a switch and myself with a hazel 
branch. I have concluded a little affair just now.”* 

“What affair?” 

“A younger son who is going, 1 know not where, has 
lost this very liight all his ready money at lansquehet ; 1 
have offered him twenty pistoles for his outfit, which he 
has turned over to me at once, and here it is ; it contains a 
sword and pistols; as to myself, 1 have taken the valet’s 
old clothes.” 

Belle-Rose slipped the sword in his belt, placed the pis- 
tols in the holsters, and they entered the forest of Ivelines. 
In an hour they had traversed the wood of la Selle, which 
borders on the wood of Rochefort. It was almost ten 
o’clock when th.ey saw the first houses of the burg scat- 
tered in the fields. A little boy was loitering along a hedge, 
gathering wild mulberries. 

“Hey! my friend!” Belle-Rose cried to him, “indicate to 
me, if you please, the dwelling of old Simon, the guard ; 
you shall have a pistole for your trouble.” 

“Follow me and keep your pistole, ” replied the child, 
turning in the direction of Belle-Rose. 

It was a beautiful child, proud and smiling; his eyes 
large and soft, his cheeks fresh and embrowned by the 
sun, his mouth red like a cherry. He shook his head 
with its silken curls, and took a path through the meadows. 
From time to time the little fellow turned back to see if 
the two strangers were following him, and his pearly teeth 
were seen to shine in a smile. After a quarter of an hour’s 
walk through the fields, they reached a cottage whose 
front was ornamented with honeysuckle, which formed for 
it a gay and green cuirass ; the swallows had their nests in 
the window corners, and the gilliflowers, mixed with bind- 
weed and wall-wort, flourished on the edge of the thatch 
roof. There were some willows behind the cottage, a little 
meadow in front of which two or three cows were feeding, 
and at one side a garden filled with fruit trees. When 
they reached the door they saw the old guard standing 
in it. 

“Here, father,” said the child, “are two strangers who 
desire to speak to you.” 

The guard approached and saluted Belle-Rose. 

“What can I do for you, my gentleman?” said he. 

Belle-Rose threw his horse’s bridle to Deroute, and asked 
Simon to follow him within the cottage. 

“The affair which brings me,” he replied, “has some 


312 


OVER HILLS AND ACROSS VALLEYS. 


importance ; it is a question of a child the care of which has 
been confided to me.” 

Simon grew pale at these words and looked fixedly at 
Belle-Rose. 

“Who sends you?” he asked. 

“A person who has sole authority over this child, the 
only one who can effectively protect him,” and drawing 
from his pocket a paper, Belle-Rose handed it to the guard. 

Simon took the letter and tremblingly opened it. It was 
from Madame de Chateaufort and prayed the old guard to 
obey Belle-Rose in everything to whom she transmitted all 
her rights over the child. 

“Order, monsieur, ” said the guard, who found it diffi- 
cult to speak. 

“Is he here?” asked Belle-Rose. 

“He is here.” 

“Then I can take him away to-day?^ 

“You can.” 

“Then he must be ready to leave in some hours. ” 

The old guard hesitated, the words died upon his lips ; he 
made a violent effort over himself and opened his mouth. 

“In carrying away the child you carry awaj’’ all the joy 
and all the hope of this house ; I have grown accustomed 
to love* him, and now that I no longer have but a few years 
to live, I cannot bend myself to the idea of losing him. 
Shall I see him no more?” 

Belle- Rose took the guard’s hand and pressed it. 

“You will see him always, if you wish. ” 

“What is it necessary for me to do?” exclaimed Simon. 

“I shall take him to the convent of St. Claire d’Ennery.” 

The guard trembled. 

“To the Abbey of St. Claire!” he repeated. “Well, I will 
follow you there, and I will find, with Madame de Chateau- 
fort’s aid, a cottage like this, and every day I shall see 
Gaston.’’ 

“You call him Gaston?” exclaimed Belle-Rose, who 
recollected Monsieur d’Assonville. 

“It is the duchess who has wished it. A gentleman’s 
name, in faith, and one which he carries \yell. Hey! 
Gaston!” continued the guard, opening the cottage door, 
“come this way; here is an honest soldier who is going to 
take you on your first journey.” 

The beautiful child who had served as Belle-Rose’s guide 
entered. 

“After my first journey, you will do well to take me on 
my first campaigUj” said he. 


A SPY. 


$13 


CHAPTER XL VII. 

A SPY. 

Before returning to St. Claire d’Ennery, Belle-Rose had 
to go to Paris, where he had left the papers which the 
Duchess de Chateaufort had confided to him, and which 
stated Gaston’s position. Belle-Rose had confided them to 
Monsieur Meriset, who had hastened to secure them in a 
secret closet where he concealed his money. These papers 
were sealed with the duchess’ arms. Monsieur Meriset 
never saw. them without thinking of the numerous adven- 
tures of Belle-Rose, and he drew from them, as usual, the 
conclusion that Belle-Rose was certainly one of the most 
considerable personages in the country. 

‘‘When he becomes prime minister,” said he, by way of 
peroration, “I will ask of him a place as concierge in a 
royal chateau.” 

The frank and open air of Belle-Rose had charmed the 
little Gaston, who had at once conceived a great friendship 
for him. Gaston wished to mount a horse for going to 
Paris ; the idea of traveling like a soldier gave him an ex- 
treme pleasure ; Belle-Rose hesitated to gratify him, fear- 
ing for him the fatigues of the road ; but Deroute, who 
desired to gain the good will of the little fellow, overcame 
all objections ; while they were still arguing, he found in 
the neighborhood a small horse upon which he placed Gas- 
ton, whip in hand. The old guard embraced his dear child 
and swore to Belle-Rose that he would reach St. Claire 
d’Ennery before him, and the cavalcade took the road to 
Paris by way of Chevreuse and Sceaux. It was near mid- 
night when Belle-Rose entered the great city ; there was 
no one in the streets unless it was some gallant here and 
there going to his mistress’ lodging; occasionally some 
lights were seen shining behind the blinds, but noises 
were rare and the lights discreet. It was the hour of 
Venus. 

“The moment is propitious,” said Belle-Rose to Deroute, 
“I can without risk knock at our friend Monsieur Meriset’s. 
No one believes that I am at Paris, and if, perchance, my 
presence should be suspected, it is not at this hour that 
they would come to seek me. ” 

“And besides, should some one meet you, how could 


314 


A SPY. 


they recognize you, in company with this little fellow? 
This child is our providence.” 

But providence slept with all his heart. Deroute had 
seated him before him and was sustaining him between his 
arms. When they were near the Barriere du Maine, Belle- 
Rose got down off his horse. 

“You are going to the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile, to Monsieur 
de Pomereux’s, ” said he to the sergeant ; “whatever hap- 
l)ens, you will he in safety there.” 

“And you?” 

“I am going to the honest Monsieur Meriset’s.” 

“Alone?” 

“No, with my sword.” 

“On foot?” 

“Certainly! the shoes of a horse are indiscreet ; they 
will tell the whole quarter whence I come and whither I 
am going.” 

Deroute looked turn by turn at the captain and the child. 

“Supposing we all three go there,” he finally said. 

“My honest sergeant,” replied Belle-Rose, “that would 
be to expose the little fellow without any profit to us.” 

He threw his horse’s bridle to Deroute, and while the 
one was taking his way to the Rue du Roi-de-Sicile by way 
of the Rue St. Jacques, the other took the direction of the 
Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice. The night was dark; a 
great wind was blowing which chased the huge clouds 
across the sky ; the weather-cocks were creaking upon the 
roofs, and the ill-adjusted i)lanks of the old doors creaked 
upon their trembling hinges. At times immovable stars 
were seen to sparkle between the rents in the clouds. 
Belle-Rose drew his cloak around his shoulders, saw to it 
that his sword and poniard played freely in their scab- 
bards, and plunged into the Faubourg St. Germain. He 
reached the Rue du Pot-de-Fer St. Sulpice by way of the 
Rue de Vangirard. As he turned the corner of the street, 
he saw a man concealed under a porch, and sleeping with 
his cloak rolled around him and his hat drawn down over 
his eyes. Belle-Rose thought that it was a lackey who had 
fallen there on leaving some cabaret, and he passed on. 
The house of the honest Monsieur Meriset seemed, at this 
advanced hour of the night, the most silent of all the 
silent houses of the quarter ; the shutters were well closed, 
and not a ray of light came through their interstices. 
Belle-Rose raised the knocker and struck. At the third 
stroke the shutter of a window fashioned above the door 
slowly opened, and the patriarchal head of Monsieur 


A SPY. 


315 


Meriset was seen leaning forward, protecting with his 
hand the flame of a candle. 

“Who goes there?” said he, in a somewhat disturbed 
voice. 

“Descend quickly!” murmured Belle-Kose, “I will tell 
you when you are closer. ’ ’ 

On hearing this well-known voice, Monsieur Meriset 
hastily closed the shutter, and ran to the stair- way. But 
at the same time that he was a thoroughly devoted man, 
Monsieur Meriset was a very prudenjb proprietor. 'Not 
being quite sure of the acuteness of his hearing,’ and wish- 
• ing to avoid any disagreeable surprise, he opened a peep- 
hole cut in the door and looked at his interlocutor. Belle- 
Rose was also being looked at by a third personage, whose 
presence he did not suspect in this part of the Rue du 
Pot-de-Fer. This personage was no other than the lackey 
whom he had seen sleeping under a porch. At the first 
stroke of the knocker the sleeper opened his eyes ; at the 
second, he straightened himself ui3 to learn whence the 
noise came; at the third, he walked in the direction of 
Monsieur Meriset’s house. From the manner in which he 
set his feet upon the ground, keeping close to the wall, it 
was evident that the pretended lackey had some interest 
not to be perceived. The end of a long rapier protruded 
from his cloak, and at the moment when he had risen, a 
X^air of xhstols had shone in comxiany with a poniard in his 
leathern belt. From door to door, this rascal gained an 
obscure corner from which it was easj^ for him to see 
without being seen. When the light fell full ux)on the 
nocturnal visitor, the spy leaned forward and examined 
him curiously. But Belle-Rose turned his back to him, and 
he could only distinguish the outlines of his form. 

“Is it indeed you?” asked the susxDicious proiDrietor. 

-“Look quickly and open quickly,” Belle-Rose answered 
him, uncovering his face. 

Monsieur Meriset smiled and drew the bolts. The spy 
had heard nothing, these words having been pronounced 
quite low; but the smile and action of Monsieur Meriset 
did not escape him. He very wisely concluded from it that 
the visitor was one of the frequenters of the house, and 
that he must have some urgent affair to arrive at this 
hour. The door half opened and Belle-Rose passed through 
it; but in shutting it, he turned toward the street, and the 
light which Monsieur Meriset held in his hand suddenly 
lit up the face of Belle-Rose, whose cloak had not been 


S16 


A SPY. 


drawn up around him again. It was like an apparition ; 
but the spy, who had seen all, trembled in his corner. 

“It is he*” he murmured. 

The door was closed, and he rushed into the street. In 
three bounds he had reached the corner of the Rue du 
Vieux-Colombier, and looked around him ; the street was 
black and silent. No other noise was to be heard there ex- 
cept the moaning of, the wind as it Whistled between the 
chimneys. The spy drew a whistle from his pocket and 
blew softly a first time, then a little stronger a second, 
then finally very Strong a third, putting a minute or two’s 
interval between each whistle. No one answered this ap- 
peal. The spy stamped his foot. 

“The scoundrel,” said he, “must have gone and got 
drunk in some cabaret ! Unless he has gone to sleep in 
some corner,” he added. 

The spy searched in every direction ; he did not find any 
one. He returned to the corner of the Rue du Pot-de-Fer, 
and moved about hesitatingly for some minutes ; some- 
times he made thirty steps running in the direction of the 
Rue du Vieux-Colombier, sometimes he turned back in 
haste toward the house of Monsieur Meriset. His irreso- 
lute mind delivered itself up to an inward soliloquy. 

“If I go to seek assistance,” thought he, “for investing 
the house and seizing Belle-Rose, he may disappear during 
my absence. But if I remain, it is clear that I alone, agile 
and strong as he is, will never succeed in getting posses- 
sion of his person. Why the devil is Robert not at his 
post?”^ 

The *spy again took up his instrument and whistled. But 
Robert did not make his appearance. The spy put the 
whistle in his pocket, fearing, if he used iiagain, to attract 
Belle-Rose’s attention ; and decided to remain on the w^atch 
in the somber corner which he had quitted at the moment 
of the captain’s entrance in his ancient lodging. 

“When he leaves,” he said to himself, “if no one has 
come, I will follow him, and I will find on the route some 
of our men who can aid me to take him or kill him.” 

The spy pressed close to the wall and remained com- 
pletely immovable. Meanwhile Belle-Rose had followed 
Monsieur Meriset into the room where he had slept so 
often. 

“I have not a long time to stay with you,” he said to* 
him, “as I am only going through Paris ” 

“What! not even to-night?” exclaimed the honest pro- 
prietor, whose weakness for Belle-Rose we know. 


A SPY. 


317 


“Not even an hour; I only come to withdraw from your 
hands certain papers which I confided to you some time 
ago.” 

“They are in my room near here.” 

“You are going, then, if you please, to get them and 
bring them to me.” 

“At least,” said Monsieur Meriset, rising, “you will do 
me the honor to accept a slice of pasty and drink a glass 
of Burgundy which I make use of only on great occasions. ” 

The walk and the open air had given Belle-Bose an ap- 
petite ; he accepted the offer of Monsieur Meriset, who ran 
to seek the pasty, the bottle, and the papers. Belle-Rose 
slipped the papers in his pocket, made a breach in the 
pasty, drank a glass of wine and cordially embraced the. 
kind old man. 

“Now I leave, my dear Monsieur Meriset, ” he said to 
him. 

“For a long time?” 

“I do not know.” 

“That is true; when one has so many affairs ” 

“It is less the quantity than the quality, my dear host, 
and mine are of a very delicate nature.” 

Monsieur Meriset shook his head with a grave and mys- 
terious air and took the flambeau in order to light Belle- 
Rose down the stair-way. The little supper to which the 
proprietor had invited the captain had delayed Belle- 
Rose’s departure by an hour. The rain had fallen during 
the repast, and the shivering spy had not moved from the 
corner where he had concealed himself. 

“If I contract the fever,” said he, pressing the handle of 
his poniard, “he will have to pay me for it. ” 

As to Robert, he had not been seen. At last the door 
opened, the spy held his breath, and Belle-Rose came 
forth. The sky began to brighten, and between the clouds 
were to be seen large strips of a deep blue. Belle-Rose 
entered the Rue des Cannettes and took through the Rue 
du Four the way to the Carrefour Buci ; he walked rapidly 
and brusquely turned the street corners. 

“This man is not worrying about an exile and knows 
where he is going,” said the spy to himself. 

Belle-Rose looked before him ; the spy was glancing in 
all directions, seeking a comrade, but the cabarets were 
closed; Paris seemed deserted. Two o’clock had just 
struck at the Sorbonne. At the corner of the Rue St. 
Andre-des-Arts, they met some robbers about to force a 
shop; a little farther on, in the Rue Pavee, they saw a 


318 


A SPY. 


student climbing to a balcony by means of a ladder. Belle- 
Rose had no time to disturb the thieves or the lover ; he 
passed on. The spy followed him. As he reached the quay, 
Belle-Rose thought he heard walking a hundred steps be- 
hind him ; he turned back and saw nothing', at the end of 
the Pont St. Michel the same noise was renewed ; this time 
Belle-Rose perceived a black shadow defiling along the 
parapet. 

“I am being followed,” thought Belle-Rose. 

In order to assure himself of it, instead of going 
through the Rue de la Barillerie, he turned the corner of 
the Rue de la Calandre and stopped at that part which 
borders on the Rue de la Juiverie. Belle-Rose placed his 
hand upon the guard of his poniard, half opened his cloak 
so as to be ready in case of attack, and took his way 
toward the Pont Notre-Dame. The spy had observed 
nothing, but in passing through the Rue de la Lanterne, 
which debouches on the quay, he perceived behind the 
windows of an ill-closed cabaret one of his comrades 
drinking. He entered and struck him upon the shoulder. 

“Hey! Gargonille,” he whispered to him, “I am on his 
track; run to Monsieur de Charny’s and awaken him.” 

“Our man is at Paris?” exclaimed Gargonille, rising. 

“I am following him; from the road he takes, I do not 
doubt but what he is going to Monsieur de Pomereux’s; 
he will be there as in a mouse-trap. Run!” 

The two acolytes follo^ved together to the Pont Notre- 
Dame, at the end of wTiich one took to the left and the 
other to the right. Belle-Rose, w^ho was listening, heard 
the tramp of Gargonille who w^as moving away through 
the Rue Planche-Mibray, while the spy was advancing in 
the direction of the Place de I’Hotel-de-Ville. Belle-Rose, 
quite sure of his point this time, came to an immediate 
decision. He entered with a more rapid step into the 
Rue de I’Epine, threw himself into the Rue de la Tixeran- 
derie and concealed himself in the shadow of a door which 
formed the corner of the Rue des Coqailles. In spite of the 
light shed by the stars, this quarter, one of the mud- 
diest and blackest in Paris, was somber and lugubrious. 
The spy, who feared to lose track of Belle- Rose, hastened 
on and entered the Rue de la Tixeranderie at the moment 
when Belle-Rose stopped at the corner of the Rue des 
Coquilles; he made some steps forward, but no longer 
hearing footsteps, stopped himself. Belle-Rose waited for 
him, poniard in hand; some moments passed in this 
reciprocal immobility ; but the captain, who did not know 


TO CONQUEB OK i)lE. 


319 


what the rascal whom the spy had enlisted on the way, 
had gone to seek, decided to act first. He emerged from 
his hiding-place and walked resolutel3^ toward the spy ; the 
spy, who was upon his guard, raised a pistol which he had 
in his hand and pressed the trigger; hut the rain had 
moistened the powder and it missed fire. Belle-Rose 
pounced upon the spy, who only had time to arm himself 
with a poniard. The struggle was short and decisive ; en- 
dowed with a terrible strength, Belle-Rose seized the spy 
and plunged his poniard up to the guard in his breast. The 
man fell, uttering a cry of despair. A terrible cry answered 
this cry. Belle-Rose listened and heard in the direction of 
the Rue des Arcis the noise of a troop of archers who were 
coming up ; he threw aside his cloak and ran toward the 
Rue du Roi-de-Sicile by way of the Rue de la Verrerie. 

In three minutes he reached Monsieur de Pomereux’s 
hotel, climbed to the balcony, split the blinds, broke the 
window, and bounded into the apartment. At the same 
moment a shot was fired in the street ; the ball struck the 
sash behind Belle-Rose. At this brusque detonation, Mon- 
sieur de Pomereux, who was talking with Deroute before 
the chimney, seized his sword. 

“Belle-Rose!” exclaimed he, at sight of the captain. 

Belle-Rose threw his bloody poniard upon the carpet. 

“Monsieur le Comte,” he said to him, “I come in the 
name of Gabrielle to ask you for hospitality.” 


CHAPTER XL VIII. 

TO CONQUER OR DIE. 

Monsieur de Pomereux divined from Belle-Rose’s 
words that the danger was great ; coming from a man of 
courage, they indicated the certainty of an imminent 
peril. The count seized 'the captain’s hand and pressed it. 

“You have pronounced a name which makes you ini 
violable,” he said to him. 

Deroute had thrown himself upon the balcony and was 
looking into the street. By the uncertain light of the 
stars, he perceived four or five men moving about and 
speaking in low tones ; he listened and could hear some 
words of their conversation. 

“It is here ” 

“Parbleu! he has climbed along the wall like a cat ” 


320 


TO CONQUER OR DIE. 


“I have heard the fall of the glass which he has broken 

“If he had staid a moment longer upon the balcony, I 
would have put this musket-ball in his back ; but he disap- 
peared just as my finger was pressing the trigger.” 

Another ran up from the end of the street. 

“And Landry?” some one asked him. 

“He is dead, and I have left him in the gutter.” 

“In faith, ’tis necessary to wait, ” said one who appeared 
to be the chief of the band and who held a naked sword in 
his hand. 

Just as Gargonill^ had quitted him whom they called 
Landry he had taken his course toward Monsieur de Lou- 
vois’ hotel. At the corner of the Hue des Lombards he 
had met a troop of soldiers and had sent them to the Rue 
du Roi-de-Sicile, where his comrade and he supposed that 
Belle-Rose would go. 

The police reached the Rue de la Tixeranderie just as 
Landry fell under the poniard of Belle-Rose ; at the cry of 
the wounded man, the whole troop threw itself upon the 
fugitive’s track; Landry made a desperate effort to point 
to them with a gesture the direction which he had fol- 
lowed, but Belle-Rose was a hundred steps in advance of 
them, and the reader has seen how he entered Monsieur de 
Pomereux’s hotel. 

“Your bandits are there?” said Deroute, turning toward 
the captain. 

“The street belongs to everybody, but the hotel is 
mine,” said the count, proudly. 

“Let me take my pistols, and I will charge all this 
canaille, ’ ’ said the sergeant. 

“Sorties are not made before the siege has begun,” said 
Monsieur de Pomereux, smiling. “Before fighting we will 
parley.” 

Deroute shoved his pistols back into their belt and re- 
turned to the window; concealed behind the blinds, he 
could see everything without being seen. A change had 
taken place in the enemy’s maneuvers; there were no 
longer but two men before the great door; the others 
were scattered around the hotel, watching over each 
issue. 

“The place is invested,” said Deroute, his face turned 
toward the count, “must we open fire?” 

“Eh! no, mordieu! do you not know how to find in your 
mind other resources than battles?” exclaimed the count. 

Belle-Rose inquired about Gaston. 


TO CONQUER OR DIE. 321 

“Oh!” said Deroute, “the little man is about to go to 
sleep for twenty-four hours if we leave him alone.” 

AVhile he was still speaking, the precipitate gallop of a 
horse was heard in the street. The cat-like eyes of Deroiite 
had at once recognized the rider. 

“Monsieur de Gharny !” he murmured. 

“It is Well,” said Monsieur de Pomereux; “the tiger 
after the wolves. ’ ’ 

Three seconds after a violent blow shook the door of the 
hotel ; another blow immediately followed it. 

“Jean,” said the count, addressing himself to one of his 
lackeys, “take a flambeau, open the door, and bring to me 
the person who is knocking. ’ ’ 

The lackey bowed and went out. 

“What!” exclaimed Deroute, “you introduce the enemy 
into the place?” 

“As you see, my comrade, and, moreover, I place the 
garrison under arrest.” 

Deroute looked at the count with all his eyes. 

“Under arrest, did you say?” 

“There, in the next room, where you are going along 
with Belle-Rose,” said Monsieur de Pomereux. 

As he said this, he opened a concealed door and intro- 
duced the captain and the sergeant into a little room where 
there 'was a small bed. 

“Dream, meditate, or sleep if you wish,” he added, 
turning to Deroute; “but above all, only speak in case you 
are questioned. ” 

The count again pressed the hand of Belle-Rose and 
closed the door upon him. Inside, the noise of steps was 
heard upon the stair-way. 

“Monsieur de Gharny !” cried the lackey, stepping back 
to make way for the favorite. 

Monsieur de Pomereux pointed out a fauteuil near the 
chimney. 

“It is a little late to make a visit, monsieur, ” said he to 
Monsieur de Gharny; “but your visits are so rare that I do 
not disturb myself over the hour which you choose. ’ ’ 

“It is not a visit, monsieur le comte, it is an aifair which 
brings me,” replied Monsieur de Gharny. 

“The motive matters little, your presence suffices me 
and you are welcome.” 

“I imagine, monsieur, that you know the grave reason 
which has brought me to your hotel at such an advanced 
hour of the night?” 

“My God! my dear Monsieur de Gharny, you are such a 


322 


TO CONQUER Oil DIE. 


deep politician, and I am sncli a shallow one, that it would 
he best to at once explain your reasons. I might seek three 
hours and find nothing after all, if you abandon me to my 
unaided meditations. ’ ’ 

Monsieur de Charny understood that Monsieur de Pomer- 
eux was jesting, but he restrained himself. 

“Then, monsieur,” said he, “I will be brief.” 

“I am all ears, monsieur.” 

“A man has taken refuge in your house to-night.” 

“It would be more exact to say that one of my friends 
has paid me a visit ; visits, you know, are made at all 
hours.” 

“This man is in rebellion against the laws of the king- 
dom.” 

“My God! laws are sometimes so complacent!” 

“He- has rebelled against the authority of the minister 
who represents the king.” 

“What pleases me in you. Monsieur de Charny, is that 
you cannot be accused of flattering royalty. It is very 
beautiful in a time when there are so many insincere 
people. ’ ’ 

“Just now,” continued Monsi^r de Charny, who was 
resolved not to be stopped by the count’s epigrams, “this 
man has killed near here one of His Majesty’s soldiers.” 

“Pardon, my dear Monsieur de Charmy, are you quite 
sure that he was a soldier? Are soldiers accustomed to 
prowl at night upon the heels of people like pickpockets? 
If there is some new ordinance on this subject, I feel a 
curiosity to know it. ’ ’ 

“After this assassination ” 

“A duel, monsieur.” 

‘ ‘ After this assassination, ’ ’ repeated Monsieur de Charny, 
coldly, “the murderer has thrown himself ii^to your hotel, 
whei*e you have welcomed him.” 

“In faith, my dear sir, I acknowledge that I am not ac- 
customed to put out at the door those who come to see 
me. ’ ’ 

“This man is here.” 

“I believe even that he intends to pass the night here.” 

“Now, monsieur le comte, I come to arrest this criminal 
of state, and you will deliver him to me at once. ” 

As he said this. Monsieur de Charny arose ; Monsieur de 
Pomereux remained upon his fauteuil. 

“Monsieur,” said he, with the air of a man profoundly 
astonished, “there is in all this a grave error, and I insist 


TO CONQUER OR DIE. 


323 


on explaining it. Have you the leisure to give me tliree 
minutes?'’ 

Monsieur de Charny looked at the count, not divining 
what his intentions were, but suspecting a snare under 
these words. 

“Speak, monsieur,” said he. 

“Oh! I shall be brief like you — but sit down; I am much 
fatigued, and if you remain standing, you will oblige me 
to rise, which would inconvenience me much. ’ ’ 

Monsieur de Charny sat down again, and anger began to 
shine in his eyes. 

“It is indeed to Monsieur de Charny that I have the 
honor of speaking?” continued Monsieur de Pomereux. 

Monsieur de Charny leaped in his chair. 

“Are you in a humor to jest, monsieur?” he exclaimed. 

“No, I am in a humor to talk, if you permit it.” 

“What signifies, then, this question?” 

“It signifies that Monsieur de Charny, the honorable 
Monsieur de Charny whom I have often had the pleasure 
to meet at Monsieur de Louvois’, being neither councilor 
in Parliament, nor procure at the Chatelet, having finally 
no judiciary charge, has no mission to arrest any one.” 

Monsieur de Charny bit his lips. 

“Nevertheless,” continued Monsieur de Pomereux, with 
the same sang-froid, “if, during the time which I have 
been deprived of your company, you have entered the 
magistracy, inform me of it, and you will see me thor- 
oughly disposed to come to an understanding with you. ’ ’ 

“Eh ! monsieur ! it is not necessary to wear the gown to 
have the right to arrest a scoundrel!” exclaimed Monsieur 
de Charny. 

“This scoundrel is one of my friends, monsieur, and if I 
consent to deliver him up, ought I not to do it only to the 
proper authorities?” 

“Well, do I not belong to Monseiur de Louvois’ house- 
hold?” 

“Certainly.” 

“Have I not all his confidence?” 

“So they say.” 

“Has he not charged me with a hundred missions more 
important than this one?” 

“Certainly.” 

“And you still hesitate?” 

“Not the least in the world.” 

“At last!” exclaimed Monsieur de Charny, like a man 
relieved of a great weight. 


324 


TO CONQUER OR DIE. 


“When one is on such good terms with so great a min- 
ister, one has always upon one’s person a little order, a, 
sealed letter, some light trifle. Exhibit to me your powers, 
and everything will be arranged to our mutual satisfac 
tion.” 

Monsieur de, Charny was alreadj’’ pale; fury rendered 
him livid. Monsieur de Pomereux, who fixed upon him a 
piercing look, had guessed rightly ; in his haste to follow 
Gargonille, Monsieur de Charny had not provided himself 
with any paper which could confer on him an official 
power. 

“I am waiting, ’ ’ said the count. 

Monsieur de Charny rose at a bound. 

“Then you refuse?” exclaimed he, in a voice trembling 
with anger. 

“Have I said anything to you which resembled a re- 
fusal?” replied Monsieur de Pomereux, without quitting 
his fauteuil. 

“Take care, monsieur le comte, you are playing a 
dangerous game,” said Monsieur de Charny. “Belle-Kose 
is here, quite close to us, perhaps; he is a criminal of 
state ; you receive him and conceal him in 3’'our house, so 
that you are ignorant of nothing which has taken j)lace. 
In an hour the minister will know all. You are risking 
your head, monsieur.” 

Scarcely had Monsieur de Charny finished these words 
when the door opened violently and gave passage to Belle- 
Rose. Belle-Rose had heard everything. At Monsieur de 
Charn^^’s threat, the loyalty of his character had revolted; 
he could claim Monsieur de Pomereux ’s aid when it was a 
question of a child to return to its mother, but he ought 
not to expose this proud gentleman to perils when his head 
was at stake. 

“Thanks, monsieur le comte,” said he, pressing the 
young man’s hand, “you have been firm and loyal to the 
end; you have done your duty, I will do mine.” 

And turning to Monsieur de Charny : 

“I follow you, monsieur, but watch well over me, for at 
the first step outside of this house, I shall have the sword 
in one hand and the pistol in the other. ” 

Deroute had slipped behind the captain, his two hands 
upon his weapons, ready for ‘everything. Monsieur de 
Charny smiled with an air of triumph ; he picked up his 
hat, saluted Monsieur de Pomereux and took his way 
toward the door. 

“Come, then, monsieur,” said he to Belle-Rose. 


TO CONQUER OR DIE. 


325 


But Monsieur cle Pomereux had already placed himself 
between Belle-Rose and Monsieur de Charny. 

“You are my guest!” he exclaimed, in a sonorous voice; 
“if a hair of your head fell, my honor would be lost. Re- 
main. I wish it!” 

Monsieur de Pomereux ’s tone, action, and look caused 
Belle-Rose to hesitate and stop. Monsieur de Charny 
bounded tpward him like a tiger. 

“Still you? take care!” he exclaimed. 

The count covered the confidant of the minister with his 
disdainful glance. 

“Belle-Rose,” added he, turning toward his friend, “you 
have entered my home safe and sound, you will leave it 
free and living.” 

“But your head is in peril!” 

“Do you prefer my honor to perish?” 

Anger made Monsieur de Charny tremble. 

“Ah! it is a sealed letter w^hich you want!” said he, 
“you shall have two of them.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux shrugged his shoulders. 

“If you had drawn an order from your pocket, I would 
have blown out your brains, that is all,,” he said to 
him. 

“After me, there is Monsieur de Louvois, ” replied the 
favorite. 

“After me, there is the Prince de Conde, ” replied Mon- 
sieur de Pomereux. 

Monsieur de Charny looked around him like a wuld 
beast ; his e^^es rested upon the balcony, and he asked him- 
self if he would not do well to call the police to his aid to 
finish everything at a stroke. Deroute divined his thought 
from the expression of his looks, and leaned against the 
window with a tranquil air. Monsieur de Charny threw 
him a viper-like glance and did not move. There was a 
moment’s silence, during which each one vras on the alert. 
Monsieur de Charny did not wish to go away, fearing that, 
during his absence, Belle-Rose might escape by a secret 
exit of the hotel ; Monsieur de Pomereux desired on his 
side to keep Monsieur de Charny in his power, but every- 
body understood that it was necessary to end this violent 
situation. It was Monsieur de Pomereux who first broke 
silence. 

“All that which has just taken place, ” said he, with a 
perfect ease, “ought to prove to us all that each of us here 
has a- firm will. You, Monsieur de Charny, wish Belle-Rose 
dead or alive; yoa, Belle-Rose, are decided to fight to the 


326 


TO CONQUEK OR DIE. 


last drop of your blood ; I see over there my friend De- 
route, who is also of this opinion.” 

“Certainly,” said the sergeant. 

“As to myself,” continued the count, “I am thoroughly 
resolved to not suffer Monsieur de Charny to assail the 
liberty of my guest.” 

“If I uttered a cry, my men would invade the hotel, ” 
said the confidant. 

“Do so, I have thirty lackeys armed to the teeth, and 
among them there are some who wear the livery of the 
Prince de Conde. ” 

“Monsieur de Charny was silent. 

“I see, monsieur, that you are convinced, like myself, of 
the inefficiency of that means ; let us seek another, then. 
An idea has just now struck me, and this is it.” 

All eyes were turned toward Monsieur de Pomereux, 
who spoke as if he had been at the corner of his fire after 
supper. 

“The quarrel is between Belle-Rose and Monsieur de 
Charny,” continued he; “each of them has his sword; let 
them draw it and fight. Deroute and I will serve as wit- 
nesses. ” 

“And what ‘will be the result of this duel with closed 
doors?” asked Monsieur de Charny, while Belle-Rose was 
drawing his sword from the scabbard. 

“Parbleu! you ask me a pleasant quo^ion, my dear 
Monsieur de Charny. If Belle-Rose kills you, it is clear 
that you -will no longer prevent him from going where it 
seems good to him ; if, on the contrarj^, you kill him, it 
will make little difference after should you take him to the 
Bastile. ’ ’ 

“Very well. Monsieur le Comte; but if, perchance, I re- 
fuse to fight?” 

“Oh! then it would be more simple still ! I would con- 
sider you as an adventurer who, after having stationed in 
the street, for I know not what bad purpose, a lot of 
bandits, has introduced himself, under a miserable pre- 
text, into my domicile, in order to carry on there an 
abominable espionage; consequently, I would have you 
seized by one of my men, and you would be very quickly 
bound.” 

Monsieur de Charny understood from the count’s air 
that he was not jesting. He came, then, to an immediate 
decision, like a man who has some courage and wh® knows 
how to risk his life when it is necessary. He slowly drew 
his sword and put himself on guard. 


TO CONQUEK OR DIE. 


327 


“I am ready,” said lie. 

“Go, then, messieurs,” said the count. 

The two swords were immediately crossed. Monsieur 
de Pomereux, who had seen Belle-Rose put to the test, had 
no fear as to the result of this duel ; but from the manner 
in which Monsieur de Charny fought, he understood that 
the adversary was worthy of the captain, and Cor a mo- 
ment he regretted having brought about the combat. At 
the first attack Belle-Rose divined the strength of Mon- 
sieur de Charny; he measured his thrusts, feigned to 
break, and when his adversary fell upon him, ho resumed 
fencing with such violence that the blade fiew from the 
hands of Monsieur de Charny. Monsieur de. Pomereux w^as 
completely reassured. Deroute picked up the sword and 
handed it to Monsieur de Charny, who immediately re- 
sumed guard, and the duel began again. This time Belle- 
Rose, master of his adv-ersary’s play, attacked in his turn ; 
just as Monsieur de Charny essayed a parr3^ and thrust, 
he caught his sword and sent it up to the ceiling. Mon- 
sieur de Charny became as white as a corpse. He rushed 
to his wea^ion, grasped it, and returned to the charge with 
an incredible fury. Belle-Rose parried all his thrusts; at 
last. Monsieur de Charny having extended his sword in a 
feint, Belle-Rose so resolutely took possession of it that it 
fell at ten steps from them. At this third disarming, Mon- 
sieur de Charny shivered from head to foot. 

“But strike, then!” he exclaimed, drunk with anger. 

“People do not kill spies,” answered Belle-Rose. 

And taking Monsieur de Charny’s sword, he broke it 
upon his knee. Monsieur de Charny 's eyes became blood- 
shot, and he fell upon a chair. 

“Tn faith, monsieur, you are conquered, ” Monsieur de 
Pomereux said to him. “Permit me to act as if you were 
dead.” 

The count rang a bell, and a lackey presented himself. 

“Labrauche, ” he said to him, “run to the stable, and 
say to the grooms to make ready the carriage and harness 
the horses; vre leave for Chantilly.” 

This last word awoke Monsieur de Charny as if from a 
dream. 

“You leave for Chantilly?” he exclaimed, rising. 

“In faith, yes.” 

“Alone, then, I imagine.” 

“You forget, my dear Monsieur de Charny, that you are 
not in condition to address questions to me ; but, neverthe- 


328 


TO CONQUEE OE DIE. 


less, I will answer you. You are anxious to know if I am 
going to Chantilly?” 

“Yes,” said the favorite. 

“My God! how much alive you are, then, fora man 
killed ! To tell the truth, I do not like to travel alone, and, 
if j^'ou permit it, I will take with me Belle-Kose and my 
friend Deroute.” 

“This is too much, and I will not suffer it.” 

Monsieur de Charny rushed tow^ard the window, but 
Monsieur de Pomereux stopped him on the way. 

“Listen, monsieur,” he said to him, in a firm voice, “I 
am master here, being at my own home. You have come 
without an order and without title for I know not what 
mission which you have not the right to exercise. Your 
bandits have fired upon my house, the house of a gentle- 
man. I could have had you caned by my people and 
thrown into the street, but I have not done it. You have 
fought, you have been conquered, for me you are dead ; 
recollect our conditions. If now you say a word, if you 
cry out, if you call, on my faith as a gentleman, 1 will 
blow our your brains.” 

Monsieur de Pomereux took a pistol and loaded it. He 
was slightly pale and no longer laughed. There was a mo- 
ment’s terrible silence. Monsieur de Charny did not fear 
death, but if death struck him, the hope of vengeance es- 
caped him. He looked at Monsieur de Pomereux the space 
of a second. The count’s face expressed a cold resolution, 
and there was no doubt but what he would execute his 
threat at the first cry. Monsieur de Charny was silent and 
sat down. 

“Monsieur le comte’s carriage is ready!” cried La- 
brauche, opening the door. 

Deroute disappeared for a moment upon a sign from 
Belle-Rose and came back, holding in his arms the little 
Gaston who was sleeping peaceably. 

“Follow me, my friends, and you, monsieur, go in 
front, ” added he, turning to Monsieur de Charny. 

They descended the great stair-way. When they reached 
the bottom. Monsieur de Pomereux turned to his people. 

“I confide this gentleman to you, ” said he to them, 
designating Monsieur de Charny. “In an hour you will 
open to him the doors of the hotel.” 

The lackeys bowed, and they passed on. The carriage 
with the arms of the Prince de Conde was waiting for 
them. Monsieur de Pomereux. made Belle-Rose, Deroute, 
and the child mount within ; he himself sat down near them. 


THE SPKING OE 1672. 


329 


‘‘Go!” said he. 

The great door of the hotel revolved upon its hinges the 
grooms started at a gallop, the carriage followed them, 
and all the escort moved olf in the midst of noise and 
flashes of light. The police were waiting in the street. At 
sight of the carriage on which the escutcheon with the 
three golden fleurs de lis sparkled, they hesitated. . 

“Make way for the carriage of the Prince de Conde!” 
cried the grooms, whose horses were neighing and 
prancing. 

The dazzled archers made way, and the procession 
passed rapidly on. 

“All the same, my dear,” said Monsieur de Pomereux to 
Belle-Hose, when they had turned the-oorner of the Rue 
du Roi-de-Sicile, “I believe that you would have done 
better to kill Monsieur de Charny.” 


CHAPTER XLIX. 

THE SPRING OP 1672 . 

Instead of making for Chantilly, Monsieur de Pomer- 
eux ’s carriage, as soon as they had passed beyond St. 
Denis, turned in the direction of Pontoise. Gaston, who 
had opened his eyes for a moment, closed them soon and 
went to sleep again. Deroute rubbed his hands and looked 
at times in the direction of Paris. 

“In faith, captain,” said he, when they were in the 
open country, “perhaps Monsieur de Pomereux was right, 
but I acknowledge that the furious and despairing face of 
Monsieur de Charny filled me with joy ; he was upon his 
chair, white as a specter, and galling the palm of his hands 
with his nails.” 

The sun had been shining for two or three hours when 
the foaming team drew up before the doors of the abbey. 
Grippard was the first to notice the arrival of the carriage. 
Suzanne, warned by him, ran to meet Belle-Rose. 

“It is to Monsieur de Pomereux that I am indebted for 
seeing you again, ” said the captain, presenting the count 
to his wife. 

Suzanne took Monsieur de Pomereux ’s hands between 
hers. 

“Once again!” she exclaimed; “you are lavish of devo- 
tion.” 


330 


THE SEEING OF 1672. 


^‘What would you, madame!” replied the count, “when 
I venture to have a virtue, I must always be exposed to a 
defeat. ’ ’ 

Gaston looked at everything with a serious air, holding 
by the hand his friend Deroute. Belle-Kose led him to 
Suzanne. 

“Behold,” said he, “the motive of my absence.” 

Suzanne leaned over the child and kissed him. 

“It is Monsieur d’Assonville’s son,” added Belle-Kose. 

“Monsieur d’Assonville’s son!” exclaimed Suzanne; 
“oh! I love him already.” 

It was the hour when the abbess of St. Claire d’Ennery 
was to be found in her oratory after the morning services. 
Belle-Kose sent to ask for a conversation, taking Gaston 
with him. As he entered the oratory, Genevieve uttered a 
cry which had an echo in the heart of the soldier ; she 
took the child in her arms and covered it with kisses. 

“You have given me more than life, ’’said she, quite low, 
to Belle-Kose, “you have given me peace.” 

Some months passed in a profound solitude ; the days 
fled like the pure water of a stream between verdant 
shores ; ^happiness filled them all. Nevertheless it some- 
times happened that Belle-Kose looked with a dreamy air 
at the great horizons where the steeples of the distant 
cities were drowned in the mist. When, perchance, a 
squadron passed through the country, clarions at the head 
and flag floating in the wind, he followed with his eyes 
the warlike march ; his cheeks colored at the aspect of the 
shining arms and superb horses; his nostrils quivered, and 
when the squadron disappeared behind a fold of ground, 
he still listened to the fanfares and sought in space the 
shadow of the floating flags. On these days Belle-Kose re- 
mained sad and care-worn. All these brave soldiers going 
so proudly to the war had before them glory, titles, and 
honors. 

About this time Suzanne gave birth to a little girl. The 
child was held over the baptismal font by Genevieve, who 
gave it its name. Belle-Kose forgot his warlike ideas for a 
moment, but soon returned to them. Meanwhile the spring 
of 1672 was passing. France was powerful and prosperous 
within, feared ^nd respected without. Her influence 
dominated Europe. She had the authority of genius nnd 
the preponderance of arms. If for a moment, toward the 
beginning of 1668, she had been constrained to recoil be- 
fore the quadruple alliance of Spain, Holland, England, 
and Sweden, and to consent to the treaty of Aix-la- 


THE SPRING OF 1672. 


331 


Chapelle, stopped in the heart of her conquests by that 
formidable league, she had conceived the hox)e and i3re- 
sentiment of her victories to come. Louis XIV. had for- 
gotten nothing. In the midst of the magnificence of his 
reign and the pomp of a court which was unrivaled in the 
universe, he recollected that mortal insult made him by 
Van Benning, schevin of Amsterdam. While a crowd of 
gentlemen filled the galleries of Versailles and St. Ger- 
main, the gazetteers of Holland spared the young king 
neither disdain nor sarcasm. Outrageous medals had been 
struck, and it was said that upon one of th^m Van Benning 
had represented him along with a sun and this device in 
exergue: “In consi)ectu meo stetitsol. ” Louis XIV. was 
waiting. He knew that his hour was near at hand, and he 
wished a splendid vengeance. From 1668 to 1672 was spent 
in preparations. Astonished Europe and disturbed Holland 
watched them. War was to be felt in the air, and no one 
knew where it would burst out. The fiag of France fioated 
upon all the seas. The admirals were Tourville, Duquesne, 
d’Estrees; the chiefs of squadron, Jean Bart and Duquay- 
Trouin. The Marechal de Crequi punished the Due de 
Lorraine. The province is conquered in the midst of a 
profound i)eace, and France cuts off all communication be- 
tween Franche-Comte and the Low Countries. It was 
already much but not enough. It was necessary to detach 
the King of England, Charles 11. , from the Dutch alliance 
brought about by the Chevalier Temple. It is the Duchess 
of Orleans, his sister, the young and beautiful Henriette, 
who charges herself with the negotiations. Her journey 
was a triumphal march. The court of Charles H. was the 
most gallant and dissolute in the world. The skillfulness 
of Colbert, Croisy and the influence of Henriette triumphed 
over the true interests of English politics, and by three 
successive treaties. King Charles H. promises fifty vessels 
and six thousand men for continental war. He will get 
three millions a year, and the nation some of the Dutch 
isles. 

The indefatigable activity of Louvois, who was a great 
minister in spite of his defects, had brought the army up 
to a hundred and eighty thousand men ; never had it been 
so strong and so well organized ; he had provided it with a 
formidable instrument of death, the bayonet, and the most 
severe discipline reigned among the troops. As to the 
generals, they were the same who, in 1668, had conquered 
the whole of Spanish Flanders in two months — Crequi, 
Turrenne, Conde, Grammont, and Luxembourg. Every- 


332 


THE SEEING OP 1672. 


tiling was ready for war ; Prance had her hand upon the 
guard of her sword. Meanwhile Holland, confiding in her 
lagoons and her dykes, let fall into ruin her dismantled 
fortifications; the party of the rigid republicans tri- 
umphed; the two brothers DeWitt and the great Huy ter, 
who saw in Holland only an isle, governed, and thinking 
only of the sea, disdained the army, composed at most of 
twenty-five thousand bad soldiers. At every hour French 
regiments took their way to the frontier places where the 
fire was going to he lighted. Arras, Bethune, le Quesnoy, 
Laudrecies, Maubeuge, St. Pal, St. Omer were incumbered 
with troops. Something of all these noises reached the ears 
of Belle-Rose, to whom the sentiment of his inaction was 
crushing; he asked everywhere and on all occasions for 
details of the preparations which gave to the kingdom the 
appearance of a warlike hive. Monsieur de Pomereux, 
who visited him at times in his retreat, related to him all 
that which was said at Versailles and Chantilly of the 
king’s plans; he spoke to him of the camps which were on 
the banks of the Sambre and of the intoxication which 
possessed the whole people. Enthusiasm was everywhere. 
Each day increased the fever which consumed Belle-Rose. 
In the position in which he was placed by events, repose 
was destroying him. Monsieur da Louvois was not one of 
those men in whom time wears out the memory ; for com- 
bating and conquering his animosity, a rival animosity 
was necessary ; the struggle might lessen, if not destroy 
his hatred. Belle-Rose recalled, with a delicious agitation, 
the emotions and accidents of war ; he saw pass before his 
eyes the animated and noisy picture of the camps, he heard 
the horses neigh and the trumpets sound. The army was 
his family, and war his country. Deroute, Grippard, and 
Cornelius shared the sentiments of Belle-Rose. They 
looked in the direction of the horizon, quite ready, with- 
out having said anything about it, to break their ties. 
Suzanne and Claudine anticipated their resolutions, with- 
out Belle-Rose and Cornelius having opened themselves to 
them. A last visit of Monsieur de Pomereux precipitated 
the denouement. It was at the end of April, 1672. 

“The Prince de Conde’s equipages are ready,” said he, 
one morning; “before three days his household will leave 
for Flanders. ’ ’ 

All Belle-Rose’s blood rushed to his cheeks at these 
words. 

“So you follow him?” said he. 

“Even to the Hague, if he wishes.” 


TtlE SEEING OF 1672. 333 

Belle-Eose encountered the eyes of Deroute, which shone 
like burning coals. 

“The court is warned,” continued the count; “the king 
will quit St. Germain on the 27th of the month; the 
wagons are already on the way, the relays prepared, and 
the musketeers have taken the front rank. The rendezvous 
is at Charleroi.” 

“At Charleroi!” exclaimed Deroute, all of whose recol- 
lections awoke at this name. 

“I should wish to see you there, Belle-Eose,” continued 
Monsieur de Pomereux; “the campaign promises to be 
beautiful; it would seem more so if we made it together.” 

Belle-Eose pressed his hand without replying, but in 
such a rough manner that the count did not doubt for a 
moment but what the captain had taken an extreme reso- 
lution. 

“If you have need of me,” he added, with a significant 
smile, “you will find me till to-morrow at Chantilly.” 

When Monsieur de Pomereux had left the abbey, Belle- 
Eose turned to Deroute. 

“Deroute,” he said to him, in a deep tone of voice, “we 
must leave. ” 

“At last!” exclaimed the sergeant, explosively. 

“I do not yet know how we will leave, ” continued Belle- 
Eose, “but I do know that we shall leave.” 

“To leave is nothing, to arrive is everything,” observed 
the sergeant. 

Cornelius came up just then ; he saw’ from the air of the 
two interlocutors that they were discussing a grave ques- 
tion. 

“Eh! Monsieur Irishman,” exclaimed Deroute, who thus 
styled Cornelius in his joyous moments, “it is a plot w^hich 
is brewing between us. I stake a crown against a sou that 
you will join us.” 

“It is a question of leaving,” added Belle-Eose. 

“I w^as thinking of it,” said Cornelius. 

The two brothers pressed each other’s hand. 

Grippard w^as called to the council ; if he was not very 
strong in invention, he was prompt and determined in 
execution. 

“We mount on horseback and gallop to the frontier !” 
exclaimed Grippard, enthusiastically. 

They were still discussing when Monsieur de Charny’s 
carriage stopped before the abbey. That somber gentle- 
man descended from it and made his way toward that 


334 


THE SEEING OF 1672. 


part of the bnilding inhabited by the Duchesse de Chateau- 
fort. Deroute at once arose and clapped his hands. 

“This evening we will be free,” he exclaimed. 

This was not the first time Monsieur de Charny had 
presented himself at the abbey ; already, and under divers 
pretexts, he had paid visits to Madame de Chateaufort. 
These visits had awakened some suspicions in the mind of 
the "sergeant, who, without communicating them to any 
one, held himself upon his guard. Deroute was not mis- 
taken when he credited Monsieur de Charny with bad in- 
tentions. Monsieur de Charny never forgot anything. The 
hatred of Monsieur de Louvois had become his. He wisheTl 
a revenge at any price. Among the lackeys who accom- 
panied him, there were two who were specially charged 
withobserving the inmates of the abbey, and to make 
preparations for a nocturnal abduction. Monsieur de 
Charny knew that Belle-Rose inhabited an isolated build- 
ing. and it was on this that he counted for the success of 
his enterprise; but still, before running any chances, it 
was necessary to know the habits of the house. These two 
lackeys prowled everywhere, examining everything with 
a sidelong glance and making the gardeners talk. Two 
others groomed the horses and did not neglect to aid their 
comrades with their knowledge when the occasion pre- 
sented itself. At the third visit. Monsieur de Charny knew 
all that he wished to knov^ ; at the fourth the exact topog- 
raphy of the place was obtained; he only needed one 
more to determine his plan of attack. He made this last 
visit on the same day Belle-Rose had resolved to escape. 
It was then toward the end of the month of April. The 
day had been fearfully warm ; great clouds were massed 
together on the horizon ; a warm and rapid wind bent the 
tree-tops. Monsieur de Charny ’s lackeys had again taken 
up the course of their investigations. 

In three words Deroute informed Belle-Rose, Cornelius 
and Grippard of his plan. All adopted it. 

“Now,” said Deroute when they were in accord as to 
the means of execution, “let us have good eyes and feet.” 

The conspirators plunged into the gardens close behind 
the agents of Monsieur de Charny. 

“Chut!” said Deroute when they were in an out-of-the- 
way place all covered with trees; “here is one of the ras- 
cals passing along the hedge ; let us slip to the other side, 
and we will not miss him. ” 

Belle-Rose and Cornelius followed the other, and De- 
route and Grippard took by the hedge, walking noiselessly 


THE SEEING OF 1672. 


335 


upon the grass. When they were at the end, they stretched 
themselves out flat upon their stomachs in a ditch and 
waited, with eyes flxed upon the lackey whom they looked 
at through the brush wood. The lackey came up slowly ; 
when he was three steps from them, believing himself 
alone, he drew a pencil from his pocket and traced some 
lines upon a slip of paper. He had his foot upon a tree- 
stump, the paper upon his knee, and his body inclined for- 
ward. Deroute and Gripjiard rose slowly and pounced 
upon the lackey, who found himself taken without having 
time to move. 

“If you cry out, you are a dead man,” Deroute said to 
him, making him feel the point of his poniard in the neck. 

The frightened lackey was silent, and they bound him 
with ends of cord, of which the sergeant’s pockets were 
full. 

“This makes one!” said Deroute, after the lackey was 
stretched out upon the grass, with feet and hands tied. 

A whistle w^as heard. 

“That makes two!” exclaimed he. 

He ran in the direction from which the whistle came, 
and found Belle-Rose and Cornelius securing the second 
lackey. The two prisoners were transported to a safe 
place and undressed. 

“There are two more,” said the sergeant to Belle-Rose, 
“and w^e will charge ourselves with those two, will we 
not, Grippard?” 

“Parbleu!” said the corporal, who was already dressing 
himself. 

Large drops of rain began to fall, and the day was draw- 
ing to a close when the little troop quitted the building 
where the two lackeys had been placed under lock and 
key. 

Deroute and Grippard proceeded to the stables. Of the 
two lackeys who remained, one, fatigued by the warmth 
of this stifling evening, had gone to sleep under a shed ; 
the other was strolling around the stables. The latter saw 
Deroute and Grippard coming; and from their costume, he 
took them for his two comrades. 

“Come on!” he exclaimed; “we must get therhorses and 
carriages ready.” 

Deroute followed the lackey, who entered under the 
coach-Rouse ; Grippard did not quit him. At a sign from 
the sergeant, he threw himself upon the lackey, making 
the blade of a poniard shine at two inches from his face. 
The lackey resigned himself at once ; they despoiled him 


336 


A PLEA.SANT JOUJEINEY. 


of his clothing, and he was concealed, bound and gagged, 
behind some stacks of straw. As to the lackey who was 
asleep, they were some time in discovering him. A certain 
little noise which was being made in a somber corner at- 
tracted Deroute in that direction ; this noise came from 
the sleeper, who was snoring loudly. This one also was 
seized, bound, and gagged before he was even thoroughly 
awake. 

“Let us make haste,” said Deroute, “it is getting dark.” 

The shade of night began to grow more dense ; objects 
were distinguishable only in an uncertain light; great 
clouds extended their vails over the sky. The rain fell 
more rapidly and more heavily. In a turn of the hand, Belle- 
Rose and Cornelius had changed clothes ; in a corner of 
the coach-house there were some cloaks, which they took ; 
the horses were saddled and bridled. 

“One word,” cried Belle-Rose to his friends; “if we are 
recognized, let us all leave together ; the rest concerns our 
pistols.” 

Monsieur de Charny descended. As he was going to 
mount within the carriage, Suzanne appeared upon the 
threshold of a chapel where she was accustomed to make 
her evening devotions. A flash of lightning, followed by a 
violent clap of thunder, illuminated all this scene. Suzanne 
divined Belle-Rose under his large felt hat; the captain 
pressed his finger to his lips, and she had the cou|*age to 
remain immovable. 

“Light the torches and leave, ” said Monsieur de Charny. 

The team, frightened by the noises of the storm, reared 
at first, then plunged forward. Suzanne fell upon her 
knees, and the cortege disappeared in the night. At 
the end of five minutes it was but a spark flying in the 
shadows. Suzanne arose. 

“My God!” said she, “watch over them.” 


CHAPTER L. 

A PLEASANT JOURNEY. 

The equipage went like the wind. At some distance 
from the abbey, Deroute, who was galloping at the head, 
saw, upon the lower side of the road, silent cavaliers en- 
veloped in great cloaks. They rode to the carriage, recog- 
nized it for that of Monsieur de Charny, and bowed. 


A PLEASANT JOURNEY. 


337 


Belle-Rose and Cornelius ran each to one of the doors of 
the carriage. At the end of a quarter of an hour, Monsieur 
de Charny lowered one of the windows, that one which 
was next to Belle-Rose. 

“Hey! Grain-d’Orge!” said he. 

Grain-d’Orge took care not to answer, but Belle-Rose 
boldly pushed his horse up to the door. 

“Behold him, monsieur,” said he, uncovering his face. 

Monsieur de Charny recognized him in the vacillating 
light of the torches; he uttered a cry and wished to plunge 
through the door, but he encountered the muzzle of a pis- 
tol in close proximity to his forehead. 

“Stir and you are a dead man,” Belle-Rose said to 
him. 

Monsieur de Charny threw himself on the other side, 
but he found himself facing Cornelius, w^ho saluted him in 
the same manner as Belle-Rose. Monsieur de Charny 
understood that he was taken as in a mouse-trap; he had 
no other arm than his sword, and lead had this time the 
advantage over steel. A furious imprecation burst from 
his lips. 

“Come,” said Belle-Rose, “do not get vexed, and above 
all, do not seek to escape. You are alone in a kind of box, 
we are two on horseback and well armed; your lackeys 
are imprison^ at the abbey ; Deroute and Grippard are in 
front, your postilions suspect nothing ; they have whips, 
and we have pistols. Let us talk. ” 

Monsieur de Charny remained silent. 

“The misadventure renders you taciturn, my dear Mon- 
sieur de Charny,” continued Belle-Rose. “This silence 
gives me a lofty idea of your philosophy. It is necessary 
to take time as it comes. You have played well, and you 
have lost ; it is not your fault. The plan was pretty. I 
have found the details in the pocket of that amiable scamp 
whom you were calling just now. Is it not Grain-d’Orge 
that you call him? Escalade, rape — nothing was lacking. 
Only twenty-four hours was needed to put the plan in exe- 
cution. In faith, I have not wished that such a beautiful 
invention should be lost through my departure ; I have 
turned the whole over to Madame de Chateaufort, who 
wull appreciate its exquisite delicacy.” 

At these last words Monsieur de Charny bowed, and his 
face w’as illuminated by a bitter smile. 

“The relay!” exclaimed Cornelius all at once. 

Monsieur de Charny leaned out of the door; some hun- 
dred steps away a light was seen shining in the night. 


338 A PLEASANT JOURNEY. 

The movement of Monsieur de Charny did not escape 
Belle-Rose. 

“Monsieur,” he said to him, in a firm tone, “I swear to 
you that I will kill you like a dog, not only at the first 
cry, hut at the first gesture.” 

“And if Belle-Rose should happen to miss you, I will 
not miss you,” added Cornelius. 

Monsieur de Charny did not mistake the accent of the 
two cavaliers ; he slunk back in a corner like a boar and 
did not budge any more. The relay was reached which 
had been prepared in advance at Franconville. The foam- 
ing horses were unharnessed; Deroute and Gripx)ard 
leaped quickly into the saddle and replaced Belle-Rose and 
Cornelius at the doors of the carriage. They also ex- 
changed horses with them. They kept on as far as St. 
Denis, where they relaj^ed again, and the carriage con- 
tinued its route to Paris. At the end of five hundred steps,- 
Belle-Rose saluted Monsieur de Charny with his hand. 

“Your comimny has served us as an escort,” he said to 
him; “we owe our liberty to you, I leave you your life in 
exchange, and w^e are quits. Let us endeavor now to avoid 
meeting again.” 

During this little discourse Deroute and Grippard had 
cut the traces and forced the postilions to come down off 
their horses. Belle-Rose and his friends rode rapidly 
a'way. When Monsieur de Charny reached the Porte Bt. . 
Denis no one had seen anything. The four cavaliers had 
fled like phantoms. As a quarter of a league from Paris, 
Belle-Rose had brusquely turned to the right and regained 
St. Denis by cuts across the country. At daybreak the 
four fugitives reached Chantilly, where they asked for 
Monsieur de Pomereux. That young gentleman was break- 
fasting gayly, all booted and spurred ; he received Belle- 
Rose with open arms. 

“Parbleu!” he exclaimed, “I was expecting you. I 
didn’t know how you would do it, but I w^as almost su«re 
that you would arrive.” 

When he was told how they had succeeded in leaving 
the abbey. Monsieur de Pomereux laughed with all his 
heart. 

“It is unfortunate,” he added, “that he has not defended 
himself, for you would have had an excuse to kill him.” 

The death of Monsieur de Charny was decidedly the 
fixed idea of Monsieur de Pomereux. Chantilly was in- 
cumbered with gentlemen who were joining, in quality of 
volunteers, the household of the Prince de Conde. 


A PLEASANT JOUENEY. 


3S9 


“Y’oii have come at the ri^ht time,” Monsieur de 
Pom ereux said to them ; “the order has come this morn- 
ing for us to set out. The king and princes will rejoin us 
at Compiegne. You will he taken for volunteers, and you 
will have nothing more to fear.” 

About two o’clock in the afternoon the procession set 
out. Belle-Rose and Cornelius rode beside Monsieur de 
Pomereux. Deroute and Grippard cama behind. The route 
which they were following was filled with troops, carts, 
baggage, carriages, and cavaliers. They encountered 
squadrons ranged in long files, battalions stretched out 
like ribbons, and trains of heavy artillery. At sigiit of 
the cannons. Deroute became red with pleasure. He rode 
his horse up to one of the pieces, a beautiful cannon of 
fleur-de-lis bronze, and caressed with his hand its shining 
breech. 

“If I were King of France,” said he, “I should always 
have a dozen of them near me, all loaded, and from time 
to time I would make them play in order to have 
music.” 

The peasants came to the road in order to see the regi- 
ments and companies of gentlemen who were going to the 
war, beautiful, smiling, and decorated as if they were 
going to a ball. When they traversed villages, the whole 
population ranged themselves where the soldiers passed 
along. In the cities there was something more than this. 
The inhabitants took possession of them, and the next day 
there was to be seen on the cockade of the hats and the 
guard of the sword boliquets of flowers and knots of ribbon 
which recalled to the gentlemen their ephemeral loves of 
a night. In all this beautiful country of France, so well 
organized for war, this military attire awoke enthusiasm. 
The king and his household were at Compiegne. The light- 
ning was about to burst through the cloud. When Mon- 
sieur de Pomereux and Belle-Rose reached the frontiers, 
Flanders was studded with bayonets. The army was being 
concentrated at Charleroi. When near Arras, Belle-Rose 
sought information of the officer in charge of the baggage 
as to the quarters of Monsieur de Luxembourg. The 
duke’s lodging was on the side of Marchienne le-Pont. 
Bel!e-Rcse warned Cornelius and Deroute, and left during 
the night, after having said good-by to Monsieur de 
Pomereux. 

“Good luck!” the count said to him, “if some misfor- 
tune should happen to you, think of me.” 

“Bah!” said Deroute, “we have the regiment of La 


340 


A PLEASANT JOURNEY. 


Ferte for us; Monsieur de Charny’s men will not go so far 
as to rub against the artillery.” 

Along the route which they followed from Arras to 
Marchienne, the flowery plains were lit up by a thousand 
fires. In the silence of the night was to be heard the songs 
of the soldiers who were drinking in the bivouacs. 
Couriers passed at a gallop, carrying orders to divers 
corps, and in the midst of the shadows was to be seen 
silent regiments advancing over the plains like gigantic 
boa-constrictors. Monsieur de Luxembourg was in com- 
mand of the army on the frontier. Order and activity 
reigned everywhere. The illustrious captain who was one 
day to succeed the Prince de Conde and the Vicomte de 
Turenne, and sustain the honor of the French flag, had 
established among the troops an exact and rigid discipline. 
Careless, irregular, voluptuous in his private life, he 
brought to the aft'airs of war a promptitude, a firmness 
which imposed respect and obedience. His glance had that 
clearness and that certainty which make great generals ; 
his bravery equaled that of the Prince de Conde. If he 
had not yet accomplished those great things and gained 
those furious battles which were to carry his reputation so 
high, it had been seen, even in the first campaigns, that 
he had in him the germ of his brilliant qualities. He had 
the esteem of the chiefs and the confidence of the soldiers. 
In proportion as he advanced in the direction of Marchi- 
enne, the sight of the places recalled to Belle-Rose one of 
the most terrible episodes of his stormy life. He saw from 
the top of a hill the little pavilion where Genevieve had 
bade him such a sad farewell ; and, upon a part of the 
bank washed by the Sambre, the lugubrious spot where 
Monsieur de Villebrais had uttered his three cries of 
agony. The old willow was still there, bathing its branches 
in the water. When Belle-Rose reached Marchienne-le- 
Pont, he found the residence of Monsieur de Luxembourg 
surrounded by officers and aides-de-camp. The day had 
just began, and its first rays had awakened the great hive 
where buzzed twenty thousand soldiers. Horses already 
saddled were prancing around the pickets. Monsieur de 
Luxembourg was expediting his dispatches. An order was 
necessary to reach him. Belle-Rose dismounted ; Deroute 
did not have enough eyes for looking at the parks of 
artillery, the tents, the stacks of arms ; a thousand wild 
exclamations came from his lips. He had just recognized 
three or four sub-officers who had served in the regiment 
of La Ferte, and was bubbling over with impatience. Just 


A PLEASANT JOURNEY. 


34i 


as lie was about to strike one of them on the shoulder an 
officer, followed by an orderly, came up at a gallop in the 
. midst of the groups who surrounded the dwelling of the 
general. His face was joyous and animated. 

“My brother!” exclaimed Belle-Rose. 

“The colonel!” exclaimed Deroute. 

At this double cry. Monsieur do Naucrais — for it was 
he — turned round, and at the same glance he recognized 
the sergeant and the captain. 

“Belle-Rose!” exclaimed he, in his turn. 

And leaping from his horse, he threw himself into the 
arms of Belle-Rose, who, from those of the colonel, passed 
into those of Pierre. 

“At last!” said de Naucrais, “they have opened their 
claws!” 

“That is to say that I have left them. ” 

“Well, morbleu! you shall not return to them. The 
army is a place of exile. ” 

“ It is a paradise ! ’ ’ murmured Deroute. 

Monsieur de Naucrais smiled as he looked at the 
sergeant 

“As to you,” said he, “if some one comes to seek you,' 
you have a halberd for defending yourself.” 

Monsieur de Naucrais and Belle-Rose passed into the 
apartment of Monsieur de Luxembourg. At the colonel’s 
name, the general turned abruptly toward the door. 

“Have you the order?” he exclaimed. 

“I have it,” answered Monsieur de Naucrais, drawing a 
dispatch from his coat; “you will soon have, monsieur le 
due,” he added, “twenty occasions to signal your courage 
against the enemies of the king and the kingdom ; another 
presents itself now to signal your generosity. Here is an 
officer who claims your protection. ’ ’ 

“Captain Belle-Rose!” exclaimed the duke. 

And he ran to embrace the young man. 

“You have sought my support, and my support shall 
not fail you,” said he; “as I am the cause of the evil, it is 
my duty to repair it. ” 

Belle-Rose wished to interrupt him ; Monsieur de 
Luxembourg stopped him with a gesture. 

“Certainly,” said he, “I have done what I could ; but 
since I have not succeeded, I have done nothing. The fir- 
ing of the convent and the carrying off of Madame d’Alber- 
gotti caused my steps to fail when they were perhaps going 
to succeed. The king has seen in that incident an attack on 
religion, and you know his disposition on that score. 


342 


A PLEASANT JOUKNEY. 


But the war is here, Belle-Rose; the sword can conquer 
everything.” 

“I shall try it,” said Belle-Rose, with a proud smile. 

“And the occasions will not fail you, friend Jacques,” 
said the duke. “I have been told things about you which 
prove that your hand has not grown benumbed during 
peace. You are among us, stay here; the army is a great 
family, and all soldiers are brothers. 

Monsieur de Luxembourg opened the dispatches which 
Monsieur de Naucrais had brought him ; his eyes sparkled 
as he ran over them and his cheeks reddened. 

“It is war! messieurs,” he exclaimed, in a vibrating 
tone. “The king is passing his troops in review; as to us, 
we shall soon pass to the frontier.” 

When Belle-Rose and Monsieur de Naucrais went out, 
they found groups of officers waiting for them at the door. 
At the news of the war which was on the eve of bursting 
out, there were among these brave gentlemen a thousand 
cries of enthusiasm. The news spread over the camp like 
an electric spark, sowing intoxication everywhere; the 
soldiers placed their hats at the end of their bayonets and 
embraced each other. When evening came, fires were lit 
all along the line, and the camp presented the aspect of a 
great ant-hill of soldiers agitated by a nervous ardor. 
What Monsieur de Luxembourg had foreseen happened ; 
the officers' who had served in the same corps as Belle-Rose 
in 1668, welcomed him like a brother in arms and pre- 
sented him to their new comrades. If needed, the captain 
would have found fifty swords for defending him and 
numberless tents for receiving him. The regiment of La 
Ferte, in which he had first served and gained his first 
grade, congregated around him, and displayed for him the 
liveliest affection. As to Pierre, he had not quitted Mon- 
sieur de Naucrais, who had attached him to his person. 
He had become corporal, then sergeant, and had a strong 
desire to become captain. At the end of an hour. Deroute 
came back, bringing with him a dozen sergeants, whom he 
had recruited among his old acquaintances. 

“Our pardon is at the end of our swoi^is,” Belle-Rose 
said to him. 

“Then we hold it,” said Deroute, with a calm air. 

This night the sergeant went to sleep under a cannon. 


THE KHINE. 


343 


CHAPTER LI 

THE RHINE. 

The invasion of Holland, in 1672, was “a thunderbolt in 
a serene sky,” to make use of the expression of the 
Chevalier Temple. A hundred thousand men abandon at 
the same time their cantonments in Flanders, and travers- 
ing the Sambre and the Meuse, penetrate the Low Coun- 
tries. The army takes possession at first of Rhimberg, 
Orsoy, Wesel, and Burich, and drives before it the fright- 
ened enemy. Successes so rapid inflame the ardor of the 
officers ; the submission of the country around Liege opens 
the way to the Republic; the army passes by Maestricht, 
the siege of which might have delayed the march of the 
troops, and pushes on farther. Grol had just fallen into 
the hands of Monsieur de Luxembourg, when on the 12th 
of June, King Louis XIV. in person arrived on the banks 
of the Rhine. The Prince de Conde was with him ; the 
Duo de Luxembourg rejoined the great captain. The 
Rhine crossed, Issel was alone left between the king and 
Amsterdam. 

Belle-Rose and Deroute had hastened, immediately after 
the capitulation of Grol, to gain the general quarters, 
where the presence of the king and the Prince de Conde 
attracted a great number of volunteers. From the heights 
of Sherewberg were to be discovered the course of the 
Rhine and the Issel, the Wellaw and theBellaw; the isle 
was defended by the Fort de Schenck and covered by the 
Wahal, whose impetuous current sheltered it from all 
attack. The Prince of Orange had left upon the right bank 
of the Rhine one of his lieutenants, Montebas, with eight 
regiments divided into three camps, who guarded the pas- 
sages from Fort de Schenck to Arnheim ; one at Hussen, 
the other at Borgschott, and the third at Tolhus. Behind 
these three camps extended a sandy country, strewn with 
dykes and all cut up with hedges and ditches. Parties of 
cavaliers were constantly to be found upon the bank, spy- 
ing on the operations of the French troops who had for intro- 
ducing themselves into the heart of Holland only the space 
comprised between Arnheim and Fort de Schenck. During 
the night which preceded the arrival of the king Belle- 
Rose left his tent. But he did it with such extreme pru- 
dence that Deroute, who was sleeping in a corner, did not 


344 


THE EHINE. 


hear him. When he was some steps from his tent, Belle- 
Hose took his horse by the bridle, swathed its feet with 
linen, and moved away from the camp. After he had 
passed the last sentinel, he left at a gallop in the direction 
of the river. The swathed feet of the horse struck the 
ground noiselessly. Upon the other bank were to be seen 
the fires of the Dutch bivouacs and in the inidst of the 
silence of the night was to be heard the cries of the sen- 
tries who were answering each other. Belle-Hose rode his 
horse into the Hhine and slowly followed its windings and 
turnings. He had been gone from the camp three or four 
hours when a cannon-shot awoke the sergeant in surprise. 
Deroute opened his eyes and looked around him ; there w^as 
no one in the tent except Grippard, who was snoring un- 
concernedly. Cornelius was with Monsieur de Naucrais. 
Another cannon-shot drew Deroute from his lethargic 
immobility ; he bounded to his feet and rushed out of the 
tent. A dozen detonations which burst upon the other 
bank made him run in the direction of the Hhine, no 
longer doubting but what Belle-Hose had, for some uncer- 
tain enterprise, taken his way in that direction. As he 
approached the bank, he saw a man on horseback ad- 
vancing toward him at a gallop. Deroute recognized 
Belle-Hose in spite of the night. 

“Hey! captain!” he cried, “are you the cause of all that 
stir over the way.” 

“In faith, it is impossible,” said Belle-Hose. 

He had scarcely finished speaking, when a fiash illumin- 
ated the Tower of Tolhus, and a ball demolished the trunk 
of a willow at twenty steps from them. 

“Now I am certain of it,” said Deroute, with a tranquil 
air. “Ah! my God, ” he added, “how wet you are; where 
the devil do you come from?” 

“From the Hhine, apparently,” replied Belle-Hose, 
wringing his cloak which was dripping water. 

“The bath has not been without music, but I fail to see 
the use of it.” 

Belle-Hose smiled. 

“When I was quite a child,” said he, placing his hand 
upon the sergeant’s shoulder, “my father often made me 
read in a great book in which all that which comes from 
the heart is written. In this book, there was a phrase 
which struck me at the time and vrhich I have never 
forgotten since.” 

“What phrase?” 

“This is it: ‘Seek and you will find.* ** 


THE RHINE. 


345 


“Well, what does that prove?” asked Deroute, who was 
puzzling his mind to divine what connection there could 
be between Dutchmen and the old book in which Belle- 
Rose read. 

“It proves that I have sought and that I have found.” 

Deroute, who was not extra bright when it came to 
parables, soon gave up trying to understand this one; 
Belle-Rose was neither dead nor wounded, and the rest in 
no wise concerned him. When they returned to the tent, 
Grippard was still sleeping. At the third cannon-shot he 
had opened his eyes for a moment, and had gone to sleep 
again, dreaming that he had heard a cricket. As soon as 
he had changed his clothing, Belle-Rose went to Monsieur 
de Luxembourg’s. The next day the Prince de Conde had 
two batteries constructed and ordered a bridge of boats to 
be prepared. From the heights of Sherewberg Louis XIV. 
examined the enemy’s position. While the artillery was 
being placed which was to protect the military operation, 
Monsieur de Luxembourg approached the Prince de Conde 
and spoke to him in a low tone for some moments. The 
prince let fall an exclamation of surprise. 

“Is he a safe man?” he exclaimed all at once. 

“Safe as myself,” answered the duke. 

“Well, let him try !” said the prince. 

Belle-Rose was some steps away from the general offi- 
cers, watching their interview. Upon a gesture from 
Monsieur de Luxembourg, he ran up. 

“Here is Monseigneur le Prince de Conde who permits 
you to do what you wish,” he said to him. 

Belle-Rose saluted without replying and drew his sword. 

“Eh! monsieur,” added the i^rince, “it is a rather bold 
enterprise, and one which may cost, without result, the 
lives of many brave men. Do you wish to take some men 
with you?” 

“Give me ten men, if you wish, my prince,” answered 
Belle-Rose. 

“You shall have twenty, and, if the thing is possible, 
believe that we will soon be at your side.” 

Belle-Rose rode rapidly away. Ten cuirasseirs of Mon- 
sieur Revel’s regiment, ten volunteers of the gardes du 
corps and three or four officers of the prince’s retinue fol- 
lowed him. Behind him came Cornelius, Deroute and 
Grippard. As they touched the shore, they encountered a 
troop of gentlemen, among whom was Monsieur de Pom- 
ereux. The young officer had donned his most beautiful 
uniform, hoping that there would be some fighting done. 


346 


THE RHINE. 


“Where are you going?” exclaimed the count. 

“Over there!” replied Belle-Rose, pointing out to him 
the Tower of Tolhus with the end of his sword. 

“Do you wish to pass the Rhine?” 

“Certainly.” 

“On horseback?” 

“Parbleu!” 

“But it is impossible!” exclaimed two or throe 
gentlemen. 

“Come first, and you will see.” 

“In fact, if it were easy, it would not be worth while 
trying it!” exclaimed the count. 

“Let us go!” said the others, unsheathing. 

Monsieur de Pomereux rode near Belle-Rose. The little 
troop threw itself into the water. Among them were Mon- 
sieur de Maurevert, Comte de Saulx, the Marquis de 
Therm es, the Duo de Coislin, the Prince de Marcillac, and 
several others of the first nobility of the kingdom. Upon 
the opposite shore they perceived three Dutch squadrons 
ranged in line of battle ; in the tower of Tolhus, the can- 
noneers were at their pieces, with matches lighted. 
Scarcely had they made ten steps in the river, when De- 
route struck himself on the forehead. 

“Good!” he exclaimed, “it is a ford.” 

He had understood the parable. 

“Well,” Belle-Rose said to him, “do you believe that the 
Evangelist is right?” 

The troop, which was composed of forty persons, ad- 
vanced with bursts of laughter. 

“If we die, we shall at least die gayly,” said Monsieur 
de Pomereux. 

The cuirassiers, more heavily armed, remained some- 
what in the rear ; the volunteers, ardent and well mounted, 
marched first. Sometimes the water came up to the girths 
of the saddles ; sometimes it even reached the belts of the 
soldiers. Monsieur de Revel’s squadrons ranged themselves 
upon the shore, ready to leave at the first signal. ^ 

Toward the middle of the river a cuirassier suddenlj^" 
lost footing and disappeared with the current ; a little later 
it was the turn of a garde du corps. Ten steps farther on 
the horse of a volunteer rolled over in the water, the river 
passed over them, and nothing more was seen of them. 

“Forw'ard!” cried Monsieur de Pomereux. 

“Forward !” repeated the gentlemen, with swords raised. 

“Eh!” said Gripi)ard, “I believe that w^e are one against 
twenty, and they have the position in their favor.” 


THE KHINE. 


347 


“Advance first and count after; does that child in front 
of us think of it?” replied Deroute, pointing with his 
finger to the Chevalier de Vendome who was pricking his 
horse with his sword to make him swim more rapidly. 

The Chevalier de Vendome was then seventeen years of 
age. Grippard was ashamed of his observation, and imi- 
tated the chevalier. At sight of that little troop which 
was advancing boldly against them, the three Dutch 
squadrons descended toward the river and entered tlie 
water up to their stirrups. At this moment the Prince de 
Conde made a sign, and Monsieur de Bevel plunged into 
the Khine at the head of the cuirassiers. The river was 
three-fourths crossed ; the passage was no longer a 
problem. 

“He is a valiant soldier, and if he is not killed, we will 
present him to the king,” said the Prince de Conde to 
Monsieur de Luxembourg. 

Belle-Rose and the brave young men who accompanied 
him were not frightened at the difference in numbers. 
Urging on their horses, they resolutely met the enemy 
with cries of, ''Vive le roi!'' Their pistols being wet, the 
sword alone remained to them ; but they handled it like 
men of courage. For a moment one might have believed 
that this handful of men was going to be annihilated by 
those three squadrons. But there happened what often 
happens in these perilous circumstances — the audacity of 
one side intimidated the other. The Dutch fired a volley 
and disbanded at once. The horses’ feet planted them- 
selves upon the shore, and the forty cavaliers rushed upon 
the enemy. There was a hand-to-hand contest, and the 
melee became terrible. 

“We' are between water and fire!” said Deroute, whose 
kindly face was red with joy. 

“Well, we will sooner succeed in extinguishing one than 
in drinking the other,” answered Monsieur de Pomereux, 
who charged in the very thick of the squadrons. 

The Tower of Tolhus, which had disdained to fire upon 
Belle-Rose and his troop, opened fire upon Monsieur de 
Revel’s cuirassiers, who were followed by two squadrons 
of Monsieur de Pilois and two others of Monsieur de 
Bligny. The balls and the mitraille spattered the water ; 
at every moment a cavalier disappeared in the river. The 
horses pranced in the Rhine, lost footing, and fell into 
currents in which they were ingulfed; the ranks were 
broken, the cavaliers rode at hazard, with eyes upon the 
melee taking place upon the opposite shore ; the river was 


348 


THE RHINE. 


covered with floating corpses, with wounded men who 
stretched their arms toward the sky, with abandoned 
flags, with horses which were struggling in the agony of 
death. The Chevalier de Sallas, struck by a ball, fell from 
his saddle and disappeared under the surface of the foam- 
ing Rhine; Comte de Nogent’s horse, having fallen back 
upon its master, drew him into the abyss, and the current 
carried them both away. A ball kills the horse of a cornet 
of cuirassiers. Monsieur de Brasalay; the valiant young 
man leaps into the river and swims with one hand, carry- 
ing his standard with the other. Monsieur de Poinereux, 
who sees him, re-enters the river, aids him to gain the 
shore, and returns to the combat. Meanwhile the cuiras- 
siers arrive one after the other; Monsieur de Revel, 
wounded and bleeding, animates the soldiers, rallies them 
and bears down upon the Dutch, who already broken and 
discouraged, scattered in all directions. Deroute had drank 
blood even to the . guard of his sword. Belle-Rose rode 
straight on without faltering. Cornelius and Grippard 
smote hip and thigh. Monsieur de Naucrais had passed 
with Monsieur de Revel’s cuirassiers, and in a bound had 
rejoined Belle-Rose. Monsieur de Poinereux pursued the 
fugitives, whom ho struck with the handle of his sword. 

“Eh! rascals! turn so we can see your faces, ” he cried, 
half serious, half laughing. 

The Dutch rallied behind the hedges and palisades, 
which space Lieutenant de Montbas had occupied with 
infantry. The trum]3et was sounded, and the soldiers, a 
moment dispersed, ranged themselves around their 
guidons. There were before the French squadrons four or 
five thousand men protected by numerous ditches and 
other means of defense; before attacking them, it would 
at least be necessary to place themselves in order of battle. 
The cannon of the batteries constructed upon the right 
shore of the Rhine shelled the Tower of Tolhns and pro- 
tected the passage of the reinforcements. The Prince de 
Conde threw himself into a bark along with the Due de 
Luxembourg, the Due d’Enghien, and the Due de Longue- 
ville; their horses swam behind them. Two entire regi- 
ments of cavalry had just entered the river. When the 
Prince de Conde and the gentlemen of his suite arrived 
upon the shore strewn with dead bodies, the squadrons of 
Messieurs de Revel, de Pilois, and de Bligny were in con- 
flict with parties of the enemy who had left their entrench- 
ments to sustain the fugitives. The Prince de Conde and 
the Due de Luxembourg placed swords in their hands, and 


THE RHINE. 


349 


as in the time when they made war together against Mon- 
sieur de Turenne in Flanders, they threw themselves upon 
the enemy. The fever of combat had seized them. When 
they were seen coming cries of enthusiasm rose from 
the ranks of the French cavaliers. The Chevalier de Ven- 
dome pounced upon a Dutch officer, killed him with a 
sword thrust, took his flag, and, armed with this trophy, 
continued his bold course; the Marquis d’Aubasson wished 
to follow him and fell, struck in the heart by a ball ; the 
Due de Longueville leaped over his dying body and placed 
himself in the first rank. Monsieur de Naucrais, Belle- 
Rose, Cornelius, and Deroute formed a wedge which 
opened the Dutch Army with the irresistible force of a 
battering-ram. Monsieur de Pomereux was everywhere at 
the same time, choosing his adversaries and improvising 
here and there duels in the midst of the combat. When a 
movement was made in any direction, Belle-Rose quitted 
his friends, ran where the danger was, and maintained the 
superiority acquired at the beginning of the action. He 
had at the same time the bravery of the soldier and the 
glance of the chief ; he was followed with enthusiasm and 
obeyed with a blind confidence. The Tower of Tolhus soon 
ceased its fire ; it was dismantled and conquered. The t^vo 
batteries of the Prince de Conde turned their smoking 
cannon toward the plain, where the Dutch were to be per- 
ceived behind their hedges and palis^\des. The impulse 
was given ; it was now bej^ond the power of the chiefs to 
stop it; to tell the truth, not one cf them thought of it, 
and far from wishing to restrain their troops, they would 
have urged them on if there had been any need to do so. 
The princes of the blood themselves fought like officers of 
fortune. The presence of the Prince de Conde, of his son 
the Due d’Enghien, of the Due de Luxembourg, of the 
young Duo de Longueville, communicated an incredible 
ardor to the soldiers who had just so audaciously crossed 
the Rhine. No attention was paid to the musketry which 
decimated their ranks, and they arrived pell-mell at the 
barriers, the best mounted in front, the others behind. 
The Dutch officers had succeeded in re-establishing a little 
order among their troops, who imagined that the whole 
French army was upon them ; the cavaliers, rallied behind 
the first ditch, made use of the pistol. A ball carried away 
Monsieur de Pomereux’s hat, who saluted with his sword. 

“Behold a lesson in politeness for which I must thank 
these gentlemen,” said he, and applied a dig of the spur 
to his horse, who neighed with pain and leaped the ditch. 


350 


THE RHINE. 


Thirty or forty gentlemen, among whom were the Prince 
de Conde and the Due d’Enghien, fell sword in hand upon 
a body of Dutch cavaliers. These cavaliers welcomed them 
with musket-shots. Belle-Rose, just at the moment when 
the guns were lowered, threw himself before the Prince 
de Conde and shielded him with his body. The balls whis- 
tled, and Belle-Rose’s horse, which he had forced to rear, 
was shot dead. Three or four gentlemen rolled from the 
saddle, and the sword escaped from the hands of the 
Prince de Conde. A stray ball had broken his arm. Near 
him, the Marquis de La Force fell under the feet of the 
horses. Belle-Rose picked up the Prince’s sword and 
returned it to him. 

“Give it to me!” exclaimed the prince, who seized it 
with his left hand, “and let us show this mob that steel is 
superior to lead.” 

Passing over the dead body of the Marquis de La Force, 
he charged the Dutch, who took to flight. At the end of 
fifty steps the barriers were reached, soldiers and gentle- 
men, conquerors and conquered, cavaliers and foot 
soldiers, being all mixed together. Monsieur de Naucrais 
had given his horse to Monsieur de Luxembourg, who had 
lost his. Deroute, seeing his two chiefs on foot, descended 
from the saddle. Monsieur de Pomereux, who had taken 
possession of a fiag, fought by the side of the Due de 
Longueville, and was half the length of a horse in advance 
of him. The youlfg duke endeavored to reach the barrier 
before the count. 

“At Versailles, I would give way to you, my dear duke,” 
Monsieur de Pomereux said to him, “but w^e have left 
etiquette on the other side of the Rhine. ’ ’ 

As he was speaking, the Dutch infantry took aim at the 
troop. .At sight of that long file of glittering muskets, 
Deroute leaped like a lion upon Monsieur de Naucrais and 
Belle-Rose and bent them down with an irresistible force. 

“Lower yourself!” cried he, in a thundering voice to the 
Comte de Pomereux, who was touching the palisades. 

^ “A gentleman does not lower himself !” replied Monsieur 
de Pomereux. 

Monsieur de Longueville had joined him, and they were 
proceeding in front. The discharge burst. A wind of 
death passed over the troop and caused the boldest to fall. 
Monsieur de Longueville and Monsieur de Pomereux’s 
horses leaped the palisade, and the two brave young men, 
struck at the same time, rolled into the Dutch ranks. 
Belle-Rose and Monsieur de Naucrais rose in the midst of 


THE liHINE. 


351 


a clond of smoke and were the first to enter the barrier. 
The Dutch lost footing on all sides; many of them were 
left dead or wounded upon the square ; the greater num- 
ber surrendered. Two regiments of cavalry took posses- 
sion of the enemy’s abandoned camn. Monsieur de Luxem- 
bourg fixed his piercing glance upon the horizon, where, 
in the golden vapors of the evening, w'ere to be seen the 
steeples of ten cities. 

“Utrecht is ours,” said he. 

Meanwhile Belle-Rose, no longer seeing any enemies be- 
fore him, retraced his steps. A group of gentlemen, black- 
ened by powder and covered with blood, surrounded a 
litter, upon which rested a dead body. Among these 
gentlemen were the Prince de Cond^ the Due d’Enghien 
and the Chevalier de Vendome- the young chevalier wept 
like a child after having fought like a soldier, the Due 
d’Enghien let great tears roll down his cheeks, and the 
Prince de Conde dried his eyes with a mutilated hand. The 
livid and blood-stained head of the Due de Longueville 
rested upon a bed of flags. Upon his pale face was still to 
be seen the ardent and proud exj)ression of his young 
courage. Death had surprised him at the moment of tri- 
umph. He had fallen, like an oak struck by the thunder- 
bolt, at a single blow’. Those among the gentlemen who 
w’ere w’ounded raised themselves to say a last adieu to him 
whom the future surrounded with so many hopes and who 
was now but a lifeless form ; the living formed for him a 
mournful and sad cortege. Belle-Rose suddenly recollected 
the cry of Deroute, and not seeing Monsieur de Pomereux 
among the officers of the prince, he was afraid. He rushed 
in the direction in which he had seen the count disappear 
in a cloud of smoke and fire, and found the sergeant sus- 
taining Monsieur de Pomereux in his arms. A surgeon, 
whom Cornelius had gone to seek, was probing his wounds. 

“Hey! come here,” the count said to him, in a failing 
voice, “I feared to die without having pressed your hand.” 

When Belle-Rose was at his side, Monsieur de Pomereux 
repulsed the surgeon’s hand. 

“I am pierced through and through,” he said to him; 
“you w’ell know that there is no longer any hope; there- 
fore, monsieur, do not worry any more.” 

The surgeon dried his instruments and went away with- 
out saying a word. 

“That is an answer,” said the count, with a smile. 

He embraced Belle-Rose and Cornelius, extended his 
hand to Deroute and made ready to die. His head rested 


352 


A RAY OF SUNSHINE. 


upon a drum. The sun was sinking toward the horizon ; 
rosy clouds floated in the luminous sky and were chased 
by a warm wind. Monsieur de Pomereux’s eyes seemed to 
seek there a fugitive image; a sweet serenity was spread 
over his features ; the reflection of a happy thought could 
be read upon them. 

“It seems to me that death is an awakening, ” said he, 
“it unites those whom life has separated.” 

His eyes lost their luster ; he murmured the name of 
Gabrielle and died. At this moment a thousand cries rose 
from all sides, the drum& beat in the fields, the cavaliers 
. shook their hats which were stuck to the ends of their 
' swords and the clarions sounded. Louis XIV. was passing 
the Rhine. 


CHAPTER LII. 

A RAY OP SUNSHINE. 

The Rhine was crossed. When night came, the French 
army camped upon the right shore; before it extended the 
great plains of Holland. Victoiy had crowned its first 
efforts. The soldiers, animated by the ardor of combat, 
grouped themselves around the bivouac fires and related 
to each other the incidents of this day. A crowd of officers 
thronged around the habitation of Louis XIV. In the in- 
toxication excited by this passage, the glorious monarch 
already saw the presage of his entrance into Amsterdam. 
He did not know that between him and the old capital of 
Holland he would find William of Orange. The generals 
came to present their compliments to the king and to take 
his orders. The halls were filled with brilliant uniforms ; 
the best gentlemen of France were there ; some failed the 
I reunion — these were dead. Everybody had traversed the 
Rhine, but no one yet knew how it had been passed. A 
man had thrown himself into the river, a company had 
followed him, then a regiment, then the army, and they 
had arrived, sword in hand, at the Dutch entrenchments. 

“Do you know, messieurs, the name of the gentleman 
who found the ford?” said the king, addressing himself to 
the circle who surrounded him. 

“Sire, ” replied Monsieur de Luxembourg, “it is an officer 
of your army; but this officer is not a gentleman.” 

“But,” proudly answered Louis XIV., “if I call him 
thus, it is apparently because he ought to be one.” 


A RAY OF.SUNSHtNE. 


353 


i 

Monsieur de Luxembourg bowed. 

“His name?” added the king. 

“Belle-Kose.” 

“To what regiment does he belong?” 

“To the regiment of La Ferte, artillery.” 

Louis XIV. meditated a moment. 

“It is not,” he resumed, presently, “the first time that I 
have heard this officer spoken of. ’ ’ 

“No, sire, I have had the honor to converse with Your 
Majesty concerning an affair in which he is interested.” 

“Ah! I recollect! Is it not a question of the firing of a 
convent and the abduction of a nun?” 

“No, sire. Persons who hate Belle-Rose because he is 
devoted to me have misrepresented facts to Your Majesty. 
Belle-Rose has delivered his fiancee who had been placed 
in a cloister against her will, and he has made her his 
wife as soon as she was free.” 

Louis XIV. knew admirably his trade of king ; he posed 
eternally before the court, before Europe, and before him- 
self. An occasion presented itself to accomplish an act of 
justice in favor of an officer who had bravely done . his 
duty, and to whom the army owed its first victory ; his 
pardon was then, take it all in all, an act of public repara- 
tion, emanating from the throne, and which made royalty 
play the role of Providence which rewards the good. 
Louis XIV. took advantage of the occasion. 

“It is well,” said he; “the officer who has fought so well 
under my eyes cannot be guilty. To-morrow you will 
bring him to us.” 

A flattering murmur traversed the circle of courtiers, 
and the king could read upon all faces the expression of a 
lively pleasure. Belle-Rose, warned by Monsieur de Lux- 
embourg, held himself in readiness to appear before the 
king. It was the first tims that he was going to find him- 
self in the presence of a sovereign whose name filled 
Europe with fear, and if his heart did not beat much at 
the moment of a battle, it beat very strongly when he fol- 
lowed the duke to the royal residence. That air of majesty 
which Louis XIV. always wore dazzled Belle-Rose ; he bent 
his knee and waited in a respectful silence. 

“Rise, monsieur,” the king said to him; “you conducted 
yourself well yesterday, and we wish, in order to reward 
your good services, that every trace of the past should be 
effaced. What you have been you are no more; you will 
know at Paris what I have made of you.” 

“At Paris!” exclaimed Monsieur de Luxembourg. “Does 


354 


A RAY OF SUNSHINE. 


Your Majesty recollect that Monsieur de Louvois hates 
Belle-Rose?” 

“Perhaps you should have forgotten it, monsieur le due, 
and only recollect what protects him,” replied the king. 
“As to you, monsieur,” added he, transferring his looks 
to Belle-Rose, “you are going to leave at once for Paris; I 
have charged you with informing Monsieur de Louvois of 
the first sucesses of our campaign. The dispatches will be 
sealed and handed you by an officer of our household. Go 
and return, monsieur; your place is among us.” 

No one in the kingdom could be more seducing and 
fascinating than Louis XIV. when he wished to be ; grace 
and dignity were allied in him in an equal proportion, and 
he had naturally that nobility which lends value to the 
least things. 

“Sire,” exclaimed Belle-Rose, “you have returned to me 
that place in the army in which I have fought for Your 
Majesty; my life is yours.” 

An hour after this interview Belle-Rose received the 
dispatches and mounted a post-chaise, after having bade 
farewell to Monsieur de Luxembourg and Monsieur de 
Naucrais. Deroute was with him. ’ Cornelius staid behind 
with Pierre. The rendezvous was before Utrecht. If De- 
route had not been able to quit Belle-Rose, Grippard, on 
his side, had not been able to separate himself from 
Deroute. The latter was groom, the former was postilion ; 
when they were together, there was no longer either cor- 
poral or sergeant ; they were like shadow and body. They 
made great haste to cross the distance which extends from 
the banks of the Rhine to Paris. Though Belle-Rose re- 
turned there under conditions as excellent as he could wish 
for, he was seized by an invincible sadness, and though he 
made every effort to chase it away, it always returned to 
extend itself like a vail over his mind. The death of Mon- 
sieur de Pomereux counted for much in this sadness. That 
brave gentleman had given him so many proofs of a 
chivalric devotion, that Belle-Rose had conceived a sincere 
friendship for him. Nevertheless he did not recall that 
the death of Monsieur d’Assonville had filled him with 
such a great depression ; he had experienced from it a pro- 
found and lasting grief, but not that sort of uneasiness 
which he could not surmount. He reached the point of 
thinking it a presentiment, and his melancholy increased. 
The firmest characters are subject to fits of depression 
which are inexplicable but nevertheless powerful. Belle- 
Rose, however, was one of those who sacrificed everything 


A RAY OF SUNSHINE. 


355 


to the accomplishment of a duty; he left St. Claire 
d*Ennery to his right and pushed straight on to Paris. 
The chaise, preceded by Deroute, entered the court of 
Monsieur de Louvois’ hotel. Belle-Rose descended from it, 
and asked an usher to introduce him into the minister’s 
presence. 

“His Excellency is engaged with Monsieur de Charny,” 
the usher said to him. 

“Say, then, to His Excellency that it is on the part of 
His Majesty Louis XIV.,” replied Belle-Rose. 

At this sacred name the usher disappeared and returned 
soon after. 

“Whom must I announce?^’ said he. 

“Captain Belle-Rose.” 

At this name. Monsieur de Louvois trembled like a lion 
surprised in his lair. 

“Captain Belle-Rose!” he repeated, covering the officer 
■with his sparkling glance. “You are very imprudent, 
monsieur, to come here. ” 

“I do not think so, monseigneur, ” said Belle-Rose, 
coldly. 

“Have you lost your memory, and must I recall to you 
that we have an account to settle together.” 

“It would be more appropriate, I believe, to speak of the 
affair which brings me. Have you not been told, monseig- 
neur, that I come on the part of His Majesty the King?” 

Monsieur de Louvois frowned. 

“The king is in Holland, monsieur,” replied he. 

“I come from there, monseigneur, and here are the dis- 
patches which His Majesty has confided to me.” 

Belle-Rose drew the package from his pocket and handed 
it to the minister. Monsieur de Louvois, thoroughly aston- 
ished, took it without reply and opened it. Monsieur de 
Charny was standing in the embrasure of a window, silent 
and attentive. On reading the dispatch which announced 
the passage of the Rhine, the man gave way to the min- 
ister. Monsieur de Louvois rose with a radiant countenance. 

“Holland is open!” he exclaimed, “ten cities conquered 
and the Rhine crossed in a month ! The republicvinust be 
effaced from the rank of nations.” 

“You were at this passage, monsieur,” resumed he, ad- 
dressing himself to Belle-Rose. 

“Yes, monseigneur.” 

“Emmerich and Retz are ours.” 

“Monsieur de Luxembourg has conquered them; the 
army is marching upon Utrecht.” 


356 


A EAY OF SUNSHINE- 


“Utrecht will be taken.” 

“I know it.” 

“Of all Holland, only Amsterdam will be left.” 

“Amsterdam and William of Orange.” 

“They will be conquered, monsieur.” 

“I hope so, monseigneur.” 

Monsieur de Louvois spoke with enthusiasm, walking 
from one end of the room to tl 3 other ; all at once he 
stopped before Belle-Rose; the expression of triumph 
slowly disappeared from his face. In his turn the minister 
gave way to the man. 

“The affairs of the kingdom are ended; I imagine, mon- 
sieur, that we can pass to yours,” said he. 

“You have not read all, monseigneur,” replied Belle- 
Rose, indicating with his finger a sealed paper which he 
had drawn from the dispatch. 

Monsieur de Louvois broke the seal and ran over the 
paper. His face, just now purple-colored, became livid; he 
fell, rather than sat down, upon his fauteuil. Monsieur de 
Charny quitted the window and came to him. 

“Read, ” the minister said to him. 

Monsieur de Charny terminated his reading without his 
impassible countenance having expressed any emotion. 
While he was running over the dispatch. Monsieur de 
Louvois turned to Belle-Rose. 

“Go, monsieur, into the other room,” he said, in a voice 
trembling with anger; “in a moment you will see me.” 

Belle-Rose saluted and went out. 

“Well!” exclaimed the minister, as soon as the door was 
closed. 

“Well, we are conquered, monseigneur,” said Monsieur 
de Charny. 

“Colonel and vicomte with the title of Malzonvilliers ! 
All the honors together!” 

Monsieur de "Louvois shivered from head to foot, and his 
lips were white. 

“Why did you let him fly?” he exclaimed, suddenly and 
violently. 

“This man is an eel, you know, monseigneur, ” replied 
Monseiur de Charny. “I have had him sought for at Paris, 
in the environs, everywhere ; he had disappeared without 
leaving any trace. As to the army, it is an ocean.” 

“He has braved me to my face, I held him in my power, 
and he escapes me. She, too, escapes me.” 

“The marquise, of whom the king’s good pleasure makes 
a vicomtesse— is she not still at St. Claire d’Ennery?” 


A RAY OF SUNSHINE. 357 

“Were she in the middle of the Place Royale, the king’s 
authority protects her.” 

“Oh, there is the chapter of accidents, ” replied Mon- 
sieur de Charny. 

Monsieur de Louvois shivered ; the manner in which his 
confidant pronounced these words gave them a clear and 
terrible sense. 

“Certes, I can do nothing when it comes to chance, ” 
said the minister in a low tone. 

A sinister smile lit up the face of Monsieur de Charny. 

“It is a blind power,” said the confidant, “and you are 
a clear-sighted minister. ” 

“Vicomte de Malzon villi ers!” murmured Monsieur de 
Louvois, “colonel! master at present of the court’s favor! 
This is indeed the king’s handwriting. He wishes to push 
him and to charge himself with his fortune. ” 

The minister read again five or six times the lines traced 
by the royal hand. 

“Monsieur de Charny,” said he, turning with an im- 
perative air to the pale gentleman, “accident is powerless 
as to him.” 

“Powerless to-day,” replied the favorite, coldly. “He 
is at your home.” 

Monsieur de Louvois rang and ordered Belle-Rose 
brought back. 

“His Majesty wishes you well, monsieur, on account of 
your gallant conduct in Holland, and notably at the 
passage of the Rhine, ” the minister said to him. “You 
are a colonel ; you must be impatient to carry this news to 
St. Claire d’Ennery, but before returning you your liberty, 
permit me to ask of you a new service.” 

“Speak, monseigneur.” 

“You have assisted at this last victory of His Majesty, 
you have even taken a great part in it ; more than any 
other you are in position to draw up the statement which 
I propose to send to the governors of the provinces. It 
must leave soon; seat yourself there and begin.” 

Belle-Rose had no motive for refusing; he took the place 
indicated by Monsieur de Louvois, and prepared to write. 

“Meanwhile,” said the minister, “if you have some 
letter to address to your wife, write it, and it will be car- 
ried to her at once.” 

Belle-Rose accepted the proposition. While he was 
tracing some words in haste. Monsieur de Charny’s eyes 
followed the rapid movements of his hand with a diaboli- 
cal expression. When the letter was sealed, a strange 


358 


THE KUE DE L’ARBEE-SEC. 


smile wandered over his lips. Monsieur de Louvois took 
the letter, and Monsieur de Charny went out. A moment 
after a lackey presented himself with Belle-Rose’s note. 
Monsieur de Charny, who was watching in the anteroom, 
walked up to the lackey. 

“Give me that letter; I charge myself with it,” said he. 

The lackey, who knew Monsieur de Charny, handed it 
to him without hesitation. Deroute and Grippard had re- 
mained in the court, waiting for the return of Belle-Rose. 
Deroute wore an air of triumph ; he went and came with 
the pride of a captain in that court where some time pre- 
vious he had wandered about under a thousand disguises. 
He would have willingly related the exploits of his master 
to every person he came across, and he looked people in 
the face with the air of a man who feels himself protected 
by the favor of the king. As to Grippard, he had sat down 
upon a block of stone and gone to sleep in the sunshine. 
An hour after Monsieur de Charny appeared in the court. 
Deroute still wore his triumphant air; from time to time 
he looked at Grippard and shrugged his shoulders, think- 
ing him a man who had no sentiment of his dignity. At 
sight of Monsieur de Charny, Deroute frowned, but it 
seemed to him that this man thrice conquered was not 
worthy of his hatred, and he smiled with a magnificent 
air. Monsieur de Charny paid no attention to Deroute and 
leaped into a carriage which had been prepared for him. 

“Barriere St. Denis,” said he. 

The team left at a rapid trot. 


CHAPTER LIII. 

THE RUE DE l’aRBRE-SEC. 

Meanwhile, at the end of an hour or two’s waiting, De- 
route began to find the time very long. Belle- Rose’s delay 
in reappearing seemed inexplicable to him; he made 
twenty "times the tour of the court, awoke Grippard two 
or three times to distract himself, but Grippard had no 
sooner opened his eyes than he closed them again; finally, 
no longer restraining himself, he took the part of mount- 
ing himself to Monsieur de Louvois’ apartments. An 
usher whom he questioned informed him that Belle-Rose 
was in the minister’s cabinet engaged in writing the offi- 
cial statement of the passage of the Rhine. As he was 
coming down again, almost tranquillized, Deroute sud- 


THE RUE DE L’ARBRE-SEO. 359 

denly recalled the order which Monsieur de Charny had 
given on mounting within the carriage. 

“The road to St. Denis,” he thought, “is also the road 
to St. Claire d’Ennery. ” 

Deroute’s forehead grew somber. 

“Has my master written anything?” he asked the 
usher. 

“He has written a letter,” answered a lackey, who was 
in the anteroom, and who. was the same one whom Mon- 
sieur de Charny had stopped. 

“Where is this letter?” 

“Monsieur de Charny has taken it, telling me that he 
would charge himself with it.” 

Deroute frowned; Monsieur de Charny ’s face had, at 
the moment when that gentleman had mounted within 
the carriage, an expression of lugubrious gayety which 
the faithful servant recollected. Without knowing why, 
he was afraid, and soon his own emotion frightened him ; 
he was a man, we know, who believed in presentiments 
and submitted to their influence. When he was in the 
court he no longer resisted his presentiment ; he struck 
Grippard with his fist. Grippard, awakened in surprise, 
bounded to his feet. 

“When Belle-Rose descends,” said the sergeant, “you 
will tell him that I have left for St. Claire d’Ennery. ” 

“What are you going to the abbey for?” replied Grip- 
pard, rubbing his eyes. 

“I do not know, it is my idea.” 

Deroute procured himself a horse and set out. Monsieur 
de Charny had, as Deroute foresaw, pushed on in the 
direction of St. Claire d’Ennery. At St. Denis he changed 
horses and gave a gold louis to the postilion, for which he 
spurred the horses vigorously. At half a league from the 
abbey Monsieur de Charny alighted from the carriage. 
There was upon the side of the road a hut where wine and 
"whisk}’ were sold, and before the hut a kind of peasant 
who was pitching up sous and catching them in his hand. 
Monsieur de Charny went to him. 

“Do you wish to gain two crowns?” he said to him. 

“Three, if you permit it,” replied the peasant, whose 
eyes shone. 

“Come, then, and do what I tell you.” 

Monsieur de Charny took him to the carriage, drew 
from it a basket enveloped in fine linen and brought 
forth from his pocket Belle-Rose’s letter. 

“You know where the Abbey of St. Claire d’Ennery 


360 


THE RUE DE L’ARBRE-SEC. 


is?” said Monsieur de Charny, with his eye upon the 
peasant. 

“Very well, since I often carry vegetables and milk 
there.” 

“Then you are known there?” 

“Perfectly.” 

“You are going then to carry this letter there, and as 
quickly as you can.” 

“That is not difficult, the distance is short and I have 
long legs.” 

“If you are questioned, answer that the basket and 
letter have been brought by a valet whose horse has fallen 
before your door.” 

“Very well.” 

“I have promised you two crowns ” 

“I have understood three,” interrupted the rascal. 

“You will have four if you return in a quarter of an 
hour.” 

“I shall fly there.” 

In eight or ten minutes the peasant, who had taken a 
cut across the flelds, reached the door of the abbey. The 
touriere opened the door, the peasant handed her the 
basket and letter, v^hich were both to Suzanne’s address, 
and as she was accustomed to seeing him, he went away 
without being questioned. At the end of a quarter of an 
hour Monsieur de Charny saw him coming back. 

“It is done!” exclaimed the young peasant. 

“Here is your money,” replied Monsieur de Charny, 
whose eyes shone with joy. 

He remounted within his carriage and took up again the 
route to Paris. As he reached Franconville, Deroute, 
riding at full speed, passed like an arrow by the side of 
the carriage. Monsieur de Charny leaned out at the por- 
tiere, following with his %e the whirlwind of dust which 
mounted from under his horse’s feet. 

“He will arrive too late this time,” murmured he, when 
he had lost sight of him. 

Deroufce blindly obeyed the secret influence which 
pushed him on; the rapidity of his course, instead of 
diminishing his ardor, augmented it. He was about to 
pass before the house where Monsieur de Charny had 
stopped, when the strap to which the stirrup was attached 
broke. Deroute retained his horse’s bridle and dismounted. 
The peasant was still at his door, but this time he was 
pitching up crowns instead of sous. 

“If it is a commission which you have for the Abbey of St. 


THE KUE HE L’ARBRE-SEa 


361 


Claire,” said he to the sergeant, “you can give it to me 
while you are fixing your stirrup ; I come from there, I 
will return there.” 

“You have been to the abbey?” exclaimed Deroute, who, 
in his present situation of mind, attached importance to 
the least things. 

“And it has brought me in twenty-four livres, ” said the 
rascal, pitching up the white pieces. 

Deroute took the peasant by the collar. 

“What were you doing at the abbey?” he exclaimed. . 

“In faith,” said the frightened rogue, “I carried there a 
basket and a letter on the part of a gentleman who had 
come in a carriage.” 

“A pale little gentleman dressed in black?” 

“Precisely, and he left again as soon as the commis- 
sion was executed. ” 

“And do you know what was in this basket?” 

“It appeared to me that it contained flowers and fruits; 
there came from it a delightful perfume.” 

“Flowers and fruits, did j^ou say?” 

“It must have been some gallantry shown by this gen- 
tleman to some nun.” 

Deroute released the peasant, pulled off the saddle, re- 
mounted his beast bareback, and flew at headlong speed 
toward the abbey. The touriere was frightened on seeing 
him pale as a corx^se and let him pass without saying a 
word. The basket and letter had been received by Madame 
de Chateaufort, who had amused herself by untying the 
linen, while some one had gone to inform Suzanne. She 
found under the white vail the most beautiful flowers and 
fruits of the season. Genevieve took an orange and opened 
it. She had recognized Belle-Kose’s handwriting and did 
not doubt but what the present came from him. Suzanne 
was at this moment at the other end of the garden with 
Claudine and the two children ; nearly an hour passed be- 
fore she could be found. When she came up she unsealed 
Belle-Rose’s letter, pale and trembling with emotion. 

“Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, “heis victorious and free! 
He has seen the king, and the king has made him colonel !” 

A stream of tears escaped from Suzanne’s eyes, and she 
embraced Genevieve and Claudine. Genevieve began to 
feel an intolerable warmth in her breast ; but joy made 
her forget her pain. The basket of flowers and fruits was 
upon a piece of furniture near by. A ray of sunshine 
through the open window fell upon them, covering them 
with a golden light, Suzanne caressed them with her eyes 


362 


THE RUE DE L’ARBRE-SEC. 


and hand ; she took a bunch of roses and scented them ; a 
splendid fruit followed the roses, and she was already car- 
rying it to her lips when the door opened violently. De- 
route, frightened and dusty, appeared upon the threshold ; 
in a bound he had reached Suzanne, snatched the fruit 
from her hands, and sent it through the window. 

“My God! what is the matter with you?” exclaimed 
Suzanne. 

Deroute, without answering, overturned the basket. 

“Do not touch it!” he finally exclaimed ; “this cursed 
basket comes from Monsieur de Charny. ” 

This terrible name caused fright to pass into the soul of 
Suzanne. Genevieve grew horribly pale and fell to her 
seat. Claudine, who noticed it, rushed to the abbess. 

“Oh! how I suffer!” she exclaimed, with her hands 
clasped to her breast. 

Suzanne and Claudine felt chilled to the heart. 

“Water, give me water,” repeated Genevieve; “my 
body is on fire.” 

Her face became livid. Deroute saw upon the floor the 
rind of an orange and understood all. 

“She is poisoned!” said he. 

Madame de ChMeaufort heard him. 

“Send for Gaston!” exclaimed the poor mother, who 
felt herself dying. 

Her features changed rapidly, she already had the leaden 
eyes and hollow cheeks of a woman who has been devoured 
by fever for ten days. A physician was called, and at the 
first word he confirmed the fears of Deroute. Genevieve 
was poisoned ; the evil had made irreparable progress ; the 
most energetic remedies could scarcely prolong life for 
some hours. The duchess received the news with a pro- 
found calm. 

“A victim was necessary,” said she, “God has chosen 
me; God punishes those whom he loves.” 

While these things were taking place at St. Claire d’En- 
nery. Belle Rose was finishing the report concerning the 
passage of the Rhine at Tolhus. Monsieur de Louvois was 
alone and delivered to the serious meditations which soli- 
tude gives birth to. His damned soul, the pale and lugu- 
brious Monsieur de Charny, was no longer there; the 
thoughts of the minister, a moment excited by the somber 
words of that gentleman, had taken an austere course. 
Before his eyes was displayed the letter of Louis XIV., his 
looks could not detach themselves from it, and it seemed 
to him that the characters were of fire. The king had 


THE KUE HE L’AKBRE-SEC. 


363 


taken Belle-Rose under his protection, and the king, Mon- 
sieur de Louvois knew, did not like for any one to inter- 
pose himself between him and his will. Monsieur de 
Louvois asked himself if it was worth while to expose 
himself to a dangerous struggle for the slender pleasure of 
following his vengeance against a man who, take it all in 
all, was in the right, and if it would not be greater, more 
worthy, and above all more politic to abjure his projects, 
for the future useless and perilous. He recollected that 
before all things, and in the high position in which events 
and his genius had placed him, he ought to be a states- 
man. Monsieur de Louvois passed his hand over his grave 
and burning forehead, drank some water, and with that 
strength of will which was peculiarly his, enchained his 
hatred in the depth of his heart. Belle-Rose had finished. 
The minister read the statement and nodded approval. 

“You have been modest as well as brave, ” he said to 
him, “it is for me to reiiair your omissions, and I will do it 
like a man who has been your enemy. Go, monsieur le 
vicomte;you are a soldier and I am a minister; let each of 
us serve his king according to his strength and his con- 
science. Give me your hand, and believe me that you will 
no longer find me between you and fortune.” 

Belle-Rose took the hand which the minister extended 
to him and moved away, if not captivated by the man, at 
least full of admiration for the minister whose firm genius 
commanded everything, even his passions. Meanwhile 
Belle-Rose had left Paris toward evening. In haste to see 
Suzanne again, and disturbed about Deroute’s absence, he 
went at a rapid pace. Night had come— -a summer night, 
clear and starry. When the carriage had passed beyond 
Pontoiso, he heard the funeral bell tolling in the midst of 
the deep silence. The bronze voice came from the direc- 
tion of St. Claire d’Ennery, from that abbey where he had 
left all that which attached him to the world. A cold 
sweat bathed the temples of Belle-Rose, and he ordered 
Grippard to apply the whip to the horses. The carriage 
rolled rapidly on. The funeral knell buzzed in the ears of 
Belle-Rose. This voice of death in the midst of these 
tranquil plains congealed the blood in his veins. When he 
was near the abbey he saw, through the open doors nuns 
praying in the chapel and the silent crowd thronging 
under the somber vault. Belle-Rose entered the abbey, not 
knowing what new misfortune threatened him. When the 
door opened and he saw Genevieve stretched out upon her 
bed, immovable and white, Belle-Rose understood every. 


364 


THE BITE DE L’ARBBE-SEO. 


thing. Genevieve had one hand upon Gaston’s head and 
with the other was pressing a crucifix to her lips. At sight 
of Belle-Kose, she raised herself. She made a sign to 
Suzanne to approach, and took her hand which she joined 
to that of Belle-Rose between hers. Her eyes shone with 
a supernatural splendor^ and as she saw tears in the eyes 
of Belle-Rose, she said to him, with the smile of a martyr: 

“Do not weep; it is the end of the expiation.” 

She leaned toward Suzanne and passed her arm around 
the young woman’s neck. 

“i am going to die,” she said to her. “Gaston will no 
longer have a mother; be that to him.” 

All her soul appeared in her eyes. She drew forward 
the sobbing child and placed him between Suzanne and 
Belle-Rose. And then having embraced all three turn by 
turn, she fell back, dead. Those who loved her remained 
all night praying around the funeral bed. Never had so 
great a grief torn the heart of Belle-Rose. Genevieve’s 
body was exposed in the chapel for three days. When the 
funeral ceremony was over, Belle-Rose took with him 
Suzanne, Claudine, and the two children, and brought 
them back to the lodge which they occupied in the park 
before his departure, and during the whole day they were 
sad and silent. Deroute and Grippard themselves, .who 
formerly did not have enough tongue to say all that was 
passing in their heads, remained mute. Toward evening, 
just as Suzanne w’as going to quit the apartment, Belle- 
Rose took her in his arms and kissed her on the forehead. 
He was grave and meditative. 

“Go,” he said to her, “and seek some repose. To-morrow, 
at daybreak, I will take you back to the hotel in the Rue 
de Rohan, you and Claudine. Your place is for the future 
at Paris. 

“And yours, Jacques?” replied Suzanne. 

“Mine is in the army so long as I have strength left to 
hold a sword. I shall go to rejoin Monsieur de Luxem- 
bourg and Monsieur de Naucrais, and with me I will take 
Gaston.” 

“What! a child so young?” exclaimed the mother. 

The child raised his blonde face and turned to Belle- 
Rose his great, black eyes, in w^hich shone a ray of joy. 

“I am a soldier’s son,” said he, in a limpid and sonorous 
voice. 

The day was dying, and already huge shadows floated 
over the country. Suzanne and Claudine retired with the 
two children. At the moment when his wife and sister 


THE RUE DE L’ARBRE-SEC. 


365 


passed the door Belle-Rose made an imperceptible sign to 
Deroute, who was going out also. Deroute remained alone 
with Belle Rose. The sergeant looked at the colonel with 
an indefinable sentiment of curiosity. He had never seen 
him so calm and so terrible ; his features had the rigidity 
of marble. 

“Is Grippard here?” asked Belle-Rose. 

“He is down below, with the horses.” 

“He must come up.” 

Grippard was called and at once made his appearance. 

“My old comrade and you, Grippard, are going to follow 

me.” 

“At once,” they answered, together, 

“You will do what I tell you?” 

“Without hesitation.” 

“Then take your swords and pistols.” 

“We have them.” 

“Saddle the horses and let us start.” 

Grippard ran to the stable, Deroute took the cloaks and 
they quitted the abbey as noiselessly as they could. The 
night was black, sad, and full of sinister noises as at the 
hours when a storm is browing on the horizon. Once 
again they crossed that route which Belle-Rose had 
traversed so often already and under circumstances so 
diverse. None of the three cavaliers spoke. Belle-Rose 
rode in front, firm, implacable, and rapid as destiny. They 
entered Paris; upon the colonel’s order, Deroute knocked 
at the door of a haberdashery. He took three masks, and 
each of them tied one upon his face. The horses were left 
in an inn, and the three soldiers plunged into the city. 

“It is here,” said Belle-Rose, when they had arrived be- 
fore Monsieur de Louvois hotel. 

Leaning against a somber wall, they waited a long time, 
immovable as blocks of stone. Shortly after midnight a 
carriage left the court ; it was drawn by two horses and 
driven by a coachman ; there was a lackey in front with a 
torch. This carriage was of a somber color and bore no 
escutcheon upon its panels. When about to pass the porte 
cochere, a man lowered a window and showed his pale face. 

“To Voisin’s!” said he. 

This man was Monsieur de Charny. 

Belle-Rose took up his position behind the carriage and 
followed it. Deroute and Grippard were close upon his 
heels. The state of the streets and the profound obscurity 
did not permit the equipage to advance very quickly. 
Belle-Rose and his two companions, accustomed to all the 


366 


THE EUE BE L’AEBRE-SEC. 


exercises of the body, did not lose sight of it. They arrived 
together behind St. Germain TAuxerrois, Rue de I’Arbre- 
Sec. The street was deserted and somber ; Belle-Rose find- 
ing the place propitious to his design, rushed forward and 
leaped in a hound to the portiere of the carriage which he 
opened. Deroute had placed his hand upon the horses’ 
hits; Grippard had charged himself with the lackey. 
Everything stopped at the same time. 

“Whip the horses!” cried Monsieur de Charny. 

“Whip, and you are a dead man,” replied Deroute, 
showing a pistol to the coachman. 

The lackey, who was a resolute fellow, plunged his spurs 
into the horse’s stomach, and struck Grii^x^ard on the head 
with a kind of hunting-knife which he carried in his belt. 
The corporal’s hat parried the attack, and he reidied by a 
thrust which entered the lackey’s body; the man fell 
under the feet of the horse, which reared frantically. 
Grippard let go the reins, and the frightened animal left 
at a gallop. The whip escaped the hands of the terrified 
coachman. The stopping of the carriage and the fall of 
the groom had occupied fche space of ten seconds. Monsieur 
de Charny looked at this great black figure which had so 
brusquely risen before him ; but the face was masked, and 
through the holes in the mask he saw only two eyes whose 
flashing fire made him start. 

“If it is gold that you wish,” said he, affecting to laugh, 
“here is my purse.” 

Belle-Rose took the purse and scattered the gold on the 
ground. Monsieur de Charny shivered ; a secret instinct 
told him that he was in the presence of a terrible danger. 

“But what do you wish, then?” he exclaimed. 

“Your life.” 

Monsieur de Charny collected all his somber energy for 
braving his enemy face to face. 

“Pardon me, monsieur,” he replied, “I took you for a 
robber, and you are an assassin.” 

Belle-Rose grew pale under his mask at this insult. 

“Each of us has his sword, ” he coldly said. “Descend, 
monsieur.” 

Monsieur de Charny descended. They were at the 
corner of the Rue de I’Arbre-Sec and the Rue des Forses- 
St. Germain-l’ Auxerrois ; not a light shone at the windows 
of the neighboring houses, not a voice was heard in the 
silence. The coachman was upon his seat, mournful and 
stiff like, a petrified corpse; the groom was gasping for 
breath upon the ground ; the scene was lit up by a torch 


THE RUE DE L’AKBRE SEC. 


867 


which Grippard held in one hand, in the other sparkled a 
naked sword. Deroiite had cut the horses’ reins and was 
waiting for an order to act. 

“Monsieur,” exclaimed Monsieur de Charny, “there 
must be some mistake. I do not know you.” 

“You will know me when one of us is stretched out 
upon the ground.” 

“But it is a trap.” 

“It is a duel.” 

“And if I do not wish to fight?” 

“You are the master as to that, but you will die more 
surely and more quickly.” 

Belle-Rose called Deroute with a sign of his head, and 
drawing forth his watch, he looked at it in the red light of 
the torch. 

“You have three minutes in which to decide, ” said he; 
“at the third, if you are not ready, this man will blow out 
your brains with a pistol as he would kill a venomous 
beast.” 

Deroute took a pistol from his belt and loaded it. Mon- 
sieur de Charny felt chilled to the marrow of his bones. 
He waited two minutes ; the silence was so profound that 
one could hear the creaking of the weather-cocks upon the 
roofs. The coachman held to his seat with both hands to 
keep from falling. At the third minute, Monsieur de 
Charny drew his sword. 

“I am ready, monsieur,” said he. 

Through his fright, a sudden idea had come to, reanimate 
his failing courage. Now he no longer feared to die ; he 
believed that he would conquer. Belle-Rose put himself 
on guard, Grippard approached, raising the torch. Deroute 
shoved his pistol back in his belt, and the two blades were 
crossed. Monsieur de Charny displayed, from the very 
first, all the finesse of his sword-play; confidence had 
nerved his hand and augmented his resources; but of his 
sword Belle-Rose made a cuirass ; everywhere steel en- 
countered steel. It was plain that each of the duelists 
wished to kill his adversary. Their feet seemed glued to 
the soil, and their swords, rapid and flexible, were inter- 
laced like luminous serpents. Monsieur de Charny ’s left 
hand rested upon his hip, but it glided by an imperceptible 
movement toward his trousers pocket. All at once, and 
after a thrust and parrj^ by Belle».Rose, which stained with 
some drops of blood the gentleman’s ^eve just above tho 
elbow, this hand reappeared armed with a pistol. The 
weapon was raised and the shot fired; but Belle-Rose, 


368 


THE KUE DE L'ARBRE-SEO. 


more prompt than lightning, threw himself to one side, 
and the ball, grazing his breast, traversed the soldier’s 
left arm. 

“Traitor!” he exclaimed, and, rapid as a thunderbolt, he 
pounced upon Monsieur de Charny. 

Nothing could stop the impetuosity of his onslaught; 
this time the hand was of iron as well as the sword; the 
first thrust was like a ball and traversed the gentleman’s 
breast near the heart; the second pierced his throat 
through and through. Monsieur de Charny opened his 
arms and fell. Belle-Rose leaned over, and snatching off 
his mask, showed his naked face. 

“You have poisoned Genevieve de Chateaufbrt,” he said 
to him; “die, then, and be cursed.” 

An expression of profound horror and mad rage con- 
tracted Monsieur de Charny’s face ; a last blasphemy ex- 
pired upon his bloody lips, a shiver seized him, and he 
died. 

“She is avenged,” said Belle-Rose, “let us leave.” 

They remounted their horses at the inn where they 
had left them, and regained St. Claire d’Ennery. The day 
was beginning to dawn when they reached the abbey, and 
the country awoke all shining with that enchanting 
decoration which the summer lavishes on everything; the 
dew trembled on the branches of the hedges, and the birds 
sang in the foliage. Suzanne was waiting in a mortal in- 
quietude; she had been told of Belle-Rose’s absencOj and 
was ignorant of the cause of it. When she perceived him, 
she ran to him with a pale face, but with her eyes already 
smiling. 

“What! blood!” she exclaimed, when Belle-Rose had 
opened his cloak. 

“It is nothing,” replied the soldier, in a deep voice; “I 
have just killed a serpent. ” 


(THE END.) 



THE ROYAL BLUE LINE 

between New York, Philadelphia, Baltimore, 
Washington, the South, and South-west is con- 
ceded to be the BEST CONSTRUCTED and 
MOST FINELY EQUIPPED RAILROAD in 
the country. 

THE OLD RELIABLE ROUTE 

to all points in Interior Pennsylvania — Reading, 
Harrisburg, Gettysburg, Pottsville, Shamokin, 
and Williamsport. 

THE ROYAL ROUTE TO THE SEA, 

The Double Track Line between Philadelphia 
and Atlantic City. 


X. A. SWEIOAm)| General Superintendent. 

G. HANCOCK, General Pfts^epger Agent. 



Has SCqnal Set ween 

CINCINNATI jLNxy NEW rORK, 

Via 'W'asliingtoii, Saltimore, and Philadelphia* 
Vefltibuled, Steam Heated, and Electric Lighted Throughout. 

THBOUOH DINING CAB AND COMPLETE PULLMAN 8EBY1CE* 
THROUGH SLEEPERS TO AND FROM 
ST. LOUIS. CHICAOO AND LOUISVILLE. 

The most interesting historic associations and the most striking and 
beautiful scenery in the United States are linked together by the C. & G 
System, which traverses Virginia, the first foothold of English settlers in 
America, where the Revolutionary War was begun and ended, and where 
the great battles of the Civil War were fought; crosses the Blue Ridge and 
Alleghany Mountains and the famous Shenandoah Valley, reaches the cele- 
brated Springs region of the Virginias, and lies through the canons of New 
River, where the scenery is grand beyond description. It follows the banka 
of the Kanawha and Ohio Rivers, and penetrates the famous Blue Grass 
region of Kentucky, noted for producing the greatest race-horses of the 
world. 

For maps, folders, descriptive pamphlets, etc., apply to Pennsylvania 
Railroad ticket offices in New York, Philadelphia, and Baltimore, the prin- 
cipal ticket offices throughout the country, or any of the following U O. 
agencies: ^ , 

NEW YORK— 362 and 1323 Broadway: 

WASHINGTON— 613 and 1421 Penna. avenue; 

CINCINNATI— Corner Fifth and Walnut streets t 

LOUISVILLE— 263 Fourth avenue; 

ST. LOUIS— Corner Broadway and Chestnut street; 

CHICAGO— 234 Clark street. 

OL B. BY AN* Assistant General Passenger Agent, Cincinnati, O. 

a. W. Agent, Waabiii,toii,I>.a 





T-A.KB 



FOR ALL PRINCIPAL POINTS Il» 


MISSOURI, 

KANSAS, 

INDIAN TERRITORY 

TEXAS, 

MEXICO, ^ 

CALIFORNIA. 

FREE RECLINING CHAIR CARS ON ALL TRAINS. 


Tliroueli ’Warner Palace JSufibt Sleepixis Oars 
from the OREAT- to the 

OULP OP m:pjs:ico. 


For farther information call on or address your nearest 
Ticket Agent, or 

JAA11C8 BARKSSR, O. P. & K A.. 

St. I.iOvd8, Ulo. 


There Is Ihtle need of emphasizing the FACT that the 


Maine Central 
Railroad 

Has been the developer of Bar Harbor, and has made this incomparable summer 

home th« 

Crown of the Atlantic Coast, 

AND 

The Natural Wonders of the White Mountains, 

The Wierd Grandeur of the Dixville Notch, 

The Quaint Ways and Scenes of Quebec, 

The Multifarious Attractions of Montreal, 

The Elegance of Poland Springs, 

The Inexhaustable Fishing if Rangeley, 

The Unique Scenery of Moosehead, 

The Remarkable Healthfulness of St. Andrews, 

Are all within contact of the ever-lengthening arms 
of the Maine Central Railroad. 

The Renowned Vacation Line, 

Or, to those who enjoy Ocean Sailing, the statement is made that the pioneer 
line along the coast of Maine, making numerous landings at picturesque points, 
almost encircling the Island of Mt, Desert is the 

Portland, Mt. Desert and 
Machias Steamboat Co. 

The New, Lange and Luxurious Steamer, “ Frank Jones,” makes, during the 
summer season, three round trips per week between Rockland, Bar Harbor and 
Machiasport. 

Illustrated outlines, details of transportaticm, and other information upon ap- 
plication to 

F. E. BOOTHBY, PAYSON TUCKER, 

?, and T. Agt. Vice-Pres’t and Gen. Mgr. 

PORTLAKD, Mb. 


IME ERIE IID) 

nun miLRoiii 

Ft. Wayne, Gincinnati, and Lnuisvilin Railroad. 

‘HH Gas BoDte.’ Tie Poinli M Uie 

BETWEEN 

’-f eoria, Bloomington, Chicago, St. Louis, Springfield, Lafayettfl| 
Frankfort, Muncie, Portland, Lima, Findlay, Fostoria, 
Fremont, Sandusky, Indianapolis, Kokomo, Peru, 
Rochester, Plymouth, LaPorte, Michigan 
City, it. Wayne, Hartford, Bluffton, 
ConnorsTille, and Cincinnati, making 

Uirect Connections for all Points East, West, North and South. 


THE ONLY LINE TRAVERSING 

THE GREAT NATURAL GAS AND OIL FIELDS 

iDf Ohio and Indiana, giving the patrons of this Popular Route an 
t!»pportun4ty to witness the grand sight from the train as they pas/i 
(through. Great fields covered with tanks, in which are stored million* 
of gallons oi oil, Natural Gas wells shooting their flames high in tho 
air, and the most beautiful cities, fairly alive with glass and all kinds 
of factories. 

We furnish our patrons with Elegant Reclining Chair Car Seats 
Free, on day trains, and L. E. & W. Palace Sleeping and Parlor Cars, 
on night trains, at very reasonable rates. 

Direct connections to and from Cleveland, Buffalo. New York, 
Boston, Philadelphia, Baltimore, Pittsburg, Washington, Kansas City, 
Denver, Omaha, Portland, San Francisco, and all points in the United 
States and Canada. 

This is the popular route with the ladies, on account of its courteous 
and accommodating train officials, and with the commercial traveler 
and general public for its comforts, quick time and sure connections. 

For any further particulars call on or address any Ticket Agent. 

H. C. PARKER, CHAS. F. DALY. 

TralBe Manaser, Gm’I P.M. & Tilt. itft. 

mVIANAPOUH. IND.^ 



THE 

Delaware 

AND 

Hudson 
Railroad. 

IBnORLT DIBBOV BOCTB TO THE GBBAT 

iDIRONDACS lOUNTlIM, 

Lake Oeorge^ Lake Champlain, Ansable Chasm, the Adiron* 
dack Mountains, Saratoga, Round] Lake, Sharon 
Springs, Cooperstown, Howe^s Caye, and the 
Celebrated Orayitj Railroad between Carbon- 
dale and Honesdale, Pa., present the 
Sreatest Combination of Health and Pleasure Resorts in America* 

. TH£ DIRECT ONE TO THE SUPERB SUMMER HOTEL ^ 
OF THE NORTH9 

"THE HOTEL CHAMPLAIH," 

^Three Miles South of Plattsburgh, on Lake Champlain). 


The Shortest and Most Comfortable Route 
Between New York and Montreal. 

In Connection with the Erie Bailwaj> the most Pictnres^n* 
•nd Interesting Route between Chicago and Boston. 

She only through Pullman line. 


hidose Sis Cents In Stamps for lUnstrated Guide t» 

If C. YOUNC, J. W. BURDICK, 

SdVtoo.Prealdsn^ Oen^aos. AUmuv. & 



QKflND TRUNK 


AND 

CHK/lUO ^ QK/INb TRUNK 
R/IILW/ITS. 


Form the most Popular Route to the West, 
Combining every Comfort and Luxury. 

PULLMAN AND WAGNER SLEEPERS ON ALL TRAINS. 


Solid Vestibuled Pullman 
Dining and Sleeping Car Trains 


Through from New York to Chicago without change. 
Choice of route from 

NEW YORK TO 

^ NIAGARA FALLS, SUSPENSION BRIDGE, 

TORONTO, DETROIT, PORT HURON, CHICAGO, 

And the West, Northwest, and Southwest via 

The Celebrated St. Clair Tunnel, 


Which connects Canada and the United States, and is the 
greatest submarine tunnel in the world. 

The Grand Trunk Railway is justly celebrated for its Fish- 
ing and Hunting Resorts, as on and contiguous to it are the 
greatest grounds in the civilized world, among them being the 

Muskoka Lakes, St. Lawrence River, Thousand 
Islands, Lake St. John Region, White 
Mountains, Androscoggin 

And many others too numerous to mention. 

For information apyly to office 6f Grand Trunk Railway at Boston, Mass. : 
Portland, Me. ; Montreal, P. Q,. ; Toronto, Ont . ; Buffalo, N. Y. ; Detroit, 

Mich., and 


N. J. POWER. aen»l Pass»r Agt., L. J. SEARGEANT. Oen»I Mang’r, 

MONTREAL, P. Q. MONTREAL, P, Q. 

FRANK P. DWYER. E. P. Agt. C. & G, T. Ry., 

a79 BROADWAY, NEW YORK, 


WHEN 
YOU ARE 
THROUCH 

READING 

^THIS BOOK' 

Send me . . . 

SIX OETSTTS 
... for one that tells 
where you can spend 
your Vacation in ... 

1896 . 

MTHERN PACIFIC RAILROAD., 

CHAK.LJK8 S. inKE, 

O-en. Pass. A-geat. 

ST. PAUL, 

Minn. 


OHOiOE^ ivo\rE>ry» 

BY 

The Author of Dr. Jack. 


These novels are copyrighted and can be had only in 
the Criterion Series. Paper, 50 cents. 


2. Dr. Jack. 

BY ST. GEORGE RATHBORNE. 

3. Dr. Jack's Wife. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

4. Miss Pauline of New York. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

5. Captain Tom. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

6. Miss Caprice. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

7. Baron Sam. 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

8. Monsieur Bob {new edition). 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

9. The Colonel by Brevet {new edition), 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. 

to. Major Matterson of Kentucky 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK. {new edition). 

1 3. The Nabob of Singapore {new). 

BY THE AUTHOR OF DR. JACK 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent 
postage free on receipt of price, by the publishers. 


OVER EIGHT HONORED THOUSAND HAVE BEEN SOLD. 


Mrs. Georgia Sheldon’s 
Novels. 


These novels are copyrighted and can be had only in 
the Clover Series. Paper, 25 cents. Cloth, one dollar. 

1— Lost, a Pearle. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

2— Stella Kosevelt. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

3— Sibyl’s Influence. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

4 — Trixy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

6— A True Aristocrat. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

6 — Max. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

7— Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

8 — Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

9 — Witch Hazel. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon . 

10— -Yirgie’s Inheritance. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

11— Audrey’s Recompense (new). By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

12— Ruby^s Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

13— Edrie’s Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

14— Tina. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

15— That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

16— Geoflrey’s Victory. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

48— Wedded by Fate (new). By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

55— Mona (new). By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent 
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STREET & SMITH, 

25 to 31 Rose Street, New York, 


MORE THAN THREE HUNDRED THOUSAND OP JULIA 
EDWARDS’ NOVELS HAVE BEEN SOLD. 


Julia Edwards’ Novels. 


A poor girl with the dangerous heritage of beauty 
must needs possess a heart as true as steel to escape the 
traps set to ensnare her by designing men. No living 
writer is the equal of Julia Edwards in the vivid portrayal 
of the struggles and triumphs of the brave daughters of 
the people — the working girls of our great cities. 

These novels are copyrighted and can be had only in 
the Clover Series. Paper, 25 cents. Cloth, one dollar. 

41 — Prettiest of All. By Julia Edwards. 

42 — The Little Widow. By Julia Edwards. 

43 — Beautiful but Poor. By Julia Edwards. 

44 — Sadia the Rosebud. By Julia Edwards. 

45— Laura Bray ton. By Julia Edwards. 

46— Stella Sterling. By Julia Edwards. 

47 — He Loves Me, He Loves Me Not. By Julia Edwards. 

Julia Edwards’ heroines are all taken from real life, 
and the spirited action of the story holds the attention 
and interest of the reader without intermission from 
cover to cover. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent 
postage free on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

STREET & SMITH, 

25 to 31 Rose Street, New York. 


MORE OP BERTHA M, CLAY^S NOVELS ARE SOLD THAN 
OP ANY OTHER AUTHOR. 


Bertha M. Clay’s Novels 

The majority of these novels are copyrighted and can 
be had only in the Clover Series. Paper, 25 cents. Cloth, 
one dollar. 

17 — For a Woman’s Honor (new). By Bertha M. Clay. 

18 — A Heart’s Bitterness. By Bertha M. Clay. 

19— A Heart’s Idol. By Bertha M. Clay. 

20— The Gipsy’s Daughter. By Bertha M. Clay. 

21— In Love’s Crucible. By Bertha M. Clay. 

22— Marjorie Deane. By Bertha M. Clay. 

23 — Gladys Greye. By Bertha M. Clay. 

24— Another Woman’s Husband. By Bertha M. Clay. 

25— Violet Lisle. By Bertha M. Clay. 

26— Fair, but Faithless. By Bertha M. Clay. 

27 — Another Man’s Wife. By Bertha M. Clay. 

28 — Between Two Hearts. By Bertha M. Clay. 

29— ’Twixt Love and Hate. By Bertha M. Clay. 

30 — A Woman’s Temptation. By Bertha M. Clay. 

31— Beyond Pardon. By Bertha M. Clay. 

32— Put Asunder. By Bertha M. Clay. 

33 — Between Two Loves. By Bertha M. Clay. 

34— Under a Shadow. By Bertha M. Clay. 

35— The Earl’s Atonement. By Bertha M. Clay. 

36 — Repented at Leisure. By Bertha M. Clay. 

37 — Weaker than a Woman. By Bertha M. Clay. 

38— Dora Thorne. By Bertha M. Clay. 

39— A Golden Heart. By Bertha M. Clay. 

40 — A Mad Love. By Bertha M. Clay. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent 
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A Gentleman from Gascony. 

BY BICKNELL DUDLEY. 


OPINIONS OP THE PRESS: 

Brooklyn Standard- Union: A most captivating story. 

Buffalo Times: The story is full of dramatic situations. 

Pittsburgh Leader: It is a romance well worth reading. 

Philadelphia (MU An interesting and graphic story good for seashore, hammock o< 
mountain. 

The New York World: A very charming novel of the romantic school, full ot love 
and adventure. 

Albany Times: “A Gentleman from Gascony,” by Bicknell Dudley, is an exciting 
and weil-told story. 

The Brooklyn Citizen: The story is full of fine dramatic situations, and is never lack- 
ing in action. The author has the knack of holding the reader’s attention throughout 
the entire story. 

San Francisco Chronicle: “A Gentleman from Gascony,” by Bicknell Dudley, while 
it at once recalls our dear old friends of the “Three Musketeers,” is a bright, clever, 
well-written and entertaining story. The book gives a graphic and vivid picture of 
one of the great historic epochs of France. 

Rochester Herald: It is a positive relief to turn from the morbid fancies of the 
Madame Grands and the Grant Allens to such a purely romantic love tale as “A 
Gentleman from Gascony,” by Bicknell Dudley, which Street & Smith publish in 
yellow covers, while deserving of more substantial garb. The story is a formidable 
rival of Mr. Stanley Weyman’s premier effort. 

Louisville Courier-Journal: It is a thoroughly readable novel that Bicknell Dud- 
ley has contributed to current literature under the title of “A Gentleman from Gas- 
cony.” Although the title recalls Stanley Weyman’s “Gentleman of France” and the 
scenes of both stories are laid in the time of Henri of Navarre, they are not alike, save 
in the fact that both the “Gentleman of France,” and the “Gentleman from Gascony” 
are heroes in the fullest sense of the term from a romantic standpoint.. 

Pittsburgh Press: Bicknell Dudley has written another story, based on French his- 
tory, around the time of the St. Bartholomew massacre. It is a tale of adventure with 
a single hero, who embodies in himself the wile of an Aramis, the strength of a Por- 
thos, and the gallantry of a D’Artagnan. The, adventures of the Chevalier de Puyca- 
dere are, even if impossible in these days, still redolent of the times of knight errantry, 
when every good sword won its way and \vas faithful. Although he was an illustrious 
chevalier both in love and war, he was certainly no chevalier d’industrie, and happily 
comes out triumphant. 

The Argus, Albany, N. Y ; The hero is a young Gascon full of dash and courage, of 
good blood but impoverished estates, who comes to Paris to seek his fortune. This 
he accomplishes after many adventures, sometimes by bravado, sometimes by brav- 
ery. There is a strong Jove story between Gabrielle de Vrissac, a maid of honor to the 
Queen of Navarre, and the Gascon, Baoul de Puycadere. Many historical characters 
figure among them — Henri of Navarre, Marguerite de Valois, Catherine de Medicis, 
and Charles IX., and Admiral Coliquy. The author, Bicknell Dudley, exhibits literary 
ability of the very first order. 

Baltimore American: “A Gentleman from Gascony,” by Bicknell Dudley. This is 
a tale of the time of Charles IX., the story opening in the year 1572. Kaoul de Puy- 
cadere is of a noble family, but his possessions have been squandered by his ancestors, 
and he leaves for Paris to better his position at court. He arrives on the eve of the 
massacre of St. Bartholomew, and his lady love, Gabrielle, having heard of the con- 
templated killing, binds a sign on his arm to protect him. By great good luck he is 
made equerry to the King of Navarre, and between his duties as equerry and his love- 
making passes through maay exciting adventures. 

“A Gentleman from Gascony ’’ is No. 11 of the Criterion Series. 
For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent postage 
free on receipt of price, fifty cents, by the publishers. 

STREET & SMITH, 

^ to 31 Rose Street, New York. 


GISMONDA. 

BY 

V^ICTORIEN SARDOU. 


A Novelization of the Celebrated Play, 

By Al. B. BCABIL. 


The Foj’fc TToHdlsays: To “dramatize” a novel is common work; 
to “novelize” a play comparatively tare. The latest in this line is “Gis- 
monda,” in which Miss Fanny Davenport has been so successful, and Mr. 
A. D. Hall has told the story in a very iuterestiug manner. 

Philadelphia Press : The story is an interesting one, and with a plot 
quite out of the common. 

Portland Oregonian : A story that holds the interest, 

Denver Republican : The characters are exceedingly well depicted. 
“Gismonda” will prove a favorite with the novel-reading public, and be- 
come one of the popular books of the season. 

Philadelphia Item : The kind of book which one sits over till he has 
finished the last word. It is a clever piece of literary work. 

Neio Orleans Picayune : It is needless to say, as it is Sardou’s creation, 
that it is of intense interest. 

Buffalo News : A vivid and powerful story. 

Brooklyn Eagle : The amplification into the novel is done by Mr. A. D- 
Hall, who presents a full and interesting picture of modern or ‘rather me. 
dieval Greece. The plot is quite original. 

Milwaukee Journal : While its situations are dramatic, it is by no 
means stagy. 

Albany Argus : We have every reason to believe that the excellent 
novelization will achieve popularity. 

Boston Traveler : It has basis for great interest. 

Syracuse Herald : The “novelizator” seems to have acquitted himself 
fairly well, and to have transformed the play into a highly romantic story. 

Burlington Hawkeye : Excellent novelization, and without a dull mo- 
ment from* beginning to end. 

Detroit THbune : As the play has been a success, the novel will un- 
doubtedly prove one also. The story has a unique plot, and the characters 
are well depicted. 

Albany Times-TJnion : No play produced during the past year has 
made such an instantaneous and overwhelming success as that of “Gis- 
monda,” and we have every reason to believe that the excellent noveliza- 
tion will achieve the same measure of popularity. 


is No. 1 of “Drama Series,” for sale by all 
Newsdealers, or will be sent, on receipt of price, 26 cents, to any address, 
postpaid, by STKBET & SMITH, 26-31 Rose St., New York. 



■» 


















OVER EIGHT HUNDRED THOUSSND HAVE BEEN SOLD. 


Mrs. Georgie Sheldon's 
Novels. 


These novels are copytlghted and can.be had only in 
the Clover Series. Paper, 25 cents. Cloth, one dollar. 

1 — Lost, a Pearle. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

2 -Stella Rosevelt. By Mrs Georgie Sheldon. 

3— Sibyl’s Intiuence. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

4 — Trixy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

.5— A True Aristocrat. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon 

6 — Max. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

7 — Two Keys. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

8 — Thrice Wedded. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

9— Witch Hazel. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

10— Virgie’s Inheritance. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

11 — Audrey’s Recompense (new). By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

12— Ruby’s Reward. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

13— Edrie’s Legacy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

14— Tina. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

15~That Dowdy. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

16- Geoffrey’s Victory. By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

4S— Wedded by Fate (new). By Mrs Georgie Sheldon. 

00 — Mona (new). By Mrs. Georgie Sheldon. 

For sale by all booksellers and newsdealers, or sent 
postage free on receipt of price, by the publishers. 

STREET & SMITH, 

2s to 31 Rose Street, New York. 


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